The Ollivander Children
by vifetoile89
Summary: After Mr. Ollivander is kidnapped, his grand-niece, Calliope, finds herself, her brother, and a Muggle friend tangled between the Ministry, the Death Eaters, the Order, and a tragedy from her family's past. Set during HBP. Now complete.
1. Two Parties

The Ollivander Children

By Vifetoile

Formerly, Queenie, of the Sugar Quill

Author's Note: Wow. This is it. I have been working on this fanfiction for years, and now it is finally seeing the light of a wide public. Thank you so much for reading. Reviews are always greatly appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter universe, nor any of the canon characters I depict in this story, of whom the most prominent is Mr. Ollivander. I do, however, own the characters that I have created. So respect that, as I respect J. K. Rowling. Thank you.

* * *

Chapter One – Two Parties

"Do you believe in magic?"

"What?"

The woman shrugged. "It's a simple question. I'm curious. Do you believe in magic?"

"Well – kind of unexpected. Um. Okay, first, I do not believe in psychics, people at the back of the newspapers saying they can read your future, Tarot cards, any of that. No, I don't buy it. But stuff like horoscopes, that's a bit of harmless fun. Then again, Sagittarians like me are too sensible to believe in things like that. But I do believe in ghosts – definitely – and that the Lord works in mysterious ways."

"You mean, in coincidences having a deeper meaning?"

"I _mean_," the man said, "that the Lord works in mysterious ways."

"All right. But is that really magic?"

"I'm getting to that. I don't – hum. Gosh, I _wish_ magic was real, I wish it could really exist, but I have to content myself with, it probably doesn't. If it ever did, it's long since faded from the world, and those who know it gone into the West. You know, like in _The Lord of the Rings_."

"I remember that. That was a good ending. If they've gone into the West, what does that say about Japan?"

"I'd worry more about California."

"_Jesus! _Mark! You just ran a red light!"

"I did not, I was already over the intersection crosswalk by the time it turned red. It's legal to continue, in fact if I'd stopped I coulda been arrested."

"All right…"

"Calliope, relax. Do you think I'm driving too fast?"

"Well – yes."

"Then _tell_ me. I don't want to scare you, _or_ be dangerous to other drivers. You can advise people on their driving in America, you know."

"I'm – sorry, just high-strung."

"It's fine. I know I drive like a maniac anyway. Comes from my days as a courier. Competitive field."

"Ah, yes, I imagine so."

"Speaking of imagination – what about _you_, Miss Ollivander?"

"Sorry?"

"Do _you_ believe in magic?"

"… Yes."

"That's it? Just yes?"

"Yes."

The first speaker, Calliope Ollivander, was a very tall, thin young woman who sat slightly ill at ease in the passenger seat of the car. To take her mind off the road, she gathered all of her long, straight black hair over one shoulder. Every so often, her pale silver eyes – startling the first time you saw them – would glance at the young man driving the car. He caught her eye and grinned. She smiled back, then looked away, not seeing how his cheeks warmed pinker than usual.

"By the way," he tapped the steering wheel in an idle bongo rhythm, "got another job interview."

"Really? Where?"

He beamed. "St. Francis Xavier Elementary."

"By the movie theater?"

"Exactly!" He seemed unable to control his excitement. "It – the interview – isn't for a while yet, but I've got really high hopes. I mean, it's in a good neighborhood – decent, anyway – it's small, got a great reputation, it's Catholic, it's small –"

"You like the fact that it's small?"

"Well, yeah. I love guiding the really interested kids, and y'know, bringing everyone together, but…" his voice got lower, "It's really hard in a big classroom where most of them just don't care. But, that's in the past, and this interview is going to signify a new step for me, a whole new life."

"That's great, Mark. I really hope you get it."

"Why, thank you, Calliope." Mark Printzen had light brown hair, cut across his forehead in a fringe that was slightly outgrown, and hazel eyes that were very good at communicating laughter across a room.

They pulled up in front of an apartment building. When they had collected another passenger – a loud and cheery actress – Mark took off again, declaring, "Next stop, Andrew, and fireworks! So, Bridget," he addressed the blonde young woman in the backseat, "How are the preparations for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival coming along?"

"They're fine, but my brother dropped his ticket, saying he can't attend."

"Oh, that's a shame."

"So that leaves one open space in our group – airfare, hotel, and round-trip. Would either of you like to come along?"

Mark's face brightened; Calliope's darkened.

"Well," Mark started, "I don't know, I'd have to check the days, see if it conflicts with my job interview – "

"Ooh, Where?"

"St. Francis Xavier's."

"_Awesome!_"

"Yeah, I don't remember the date exactly, but it's right around then, mid to late August."

"Okay, well, totally understand if you can't make it."

"I'd love to, though."

"Oh, I know you would." She addressed Calliope, "He's been dreaming of going to England for-_ever_."

"It's true," Mark nodded, making a turn.

"What about you, Calliope? Go back home for a weekend, show us around – you live in Scotland, don't you?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you say?"

"I –" Calliope leaned her forehead on her hand, and didn't look at either of the Muggles in the car, "Listen, I've already been thinking hard about whether I want to go home or not – I mean, move back home, to stay. I _really_ do not think I'll be flying across the Atlantic for a weekend."

"Oh. Gee." Bridget retreated into the backseat. "Sorry."

"Is everything okay back home?" Mark looked at Calliope. "Is your family okay?"

"As well as can be expected," she replied, trying to make her voice lighter and less expressive.

The sun was low over the horizon and blazing yet when the small red car pulled up to the River View apartment complex. Once Mark had parked the car, Bridget got out and trotted over to his side of the car, twirling once to show off her star-spangled attire. "New outfit! You like?"

"It's frapjous. You look great," he translated, when Bridget looked confused. She beamed and hurried to the door. He turned. "And you, Miss Ollivander –"

She looked down at her simple striped dress and red shawl. "It's not much, but it's the most red, white, and blue I could come up with."

"You look – "

"And I must remind you these are _British_ colors. My grandfather was still withholding judgment on that Independence notion of yours."

"You look lovely," he said with a smile. "As always."

"Thank you," she replied, in her measured way.

Jazz music, soft but catchy, haunted the three as they walked up to the door of 15G and rang the doorbell. Andrew Dupont opened it wide with a smile. "Bridget! Mark! Calliope! The gang's all here! Come inside! Happy Fourth of July!"

"Same to you!" Mark replied.

"Come inside, we got cornbread from Tabitha, of course, and Eli hooked us up with a big clamboil, so help yourselves, and beers in the cooler of _every_ nationality so we can celebrate a real Melting Pot." Andrew's dark eyes twinkled. He tossed his short dreadlocks out of his face as he guided Bridget to their purse room and listened to her gossip.

Calliope and Mark walked around the entire flat, saying hello to everyone, but Calliope soon left him on the balcony and went into the living room, past the dusty television. There Andrew's sister Tabitha was holding court, among a crowd of people whose clothes were odder, their voices quieter, and their drinks more exuberantly colored, than of those on the balcony.

Calliope reflected that it was a shame, with all the work that Andrew and Tabitha put into their parties, that they inevitably ended up being split into two mini-soirées: wizards in the living room and Muggles on the balcony. They happened to listen to the same music, eat from the same buffet table, and watch the same fireworks. At least the music was always good. Calliope had not yet worked out how the Muggleborn Andrew managed to play Louis Armstrong, the Coffee Club Orchestra, and Sydney Bechet on a magical radio, but it always _did_ sound scratchy.

As Calliope poured herself a root beer, Andrew made his way towards her. He looked around warily, then took a drink for himself. He asked quietly, "Is everything okay back home? Is your family okay?"

Calliope sighed and took a drink like the root beer was a martini. "The situation's not getting any better. I'm lucky enough to come from a pure-blood family, and a small one, but – god, things seem to get worse every day."

"I heard you elected a new Minister of Magic," Andrew offered.

"Yes, we have. My brother even managed to get me a nice absentee ballot. And everyone I know is delighted with the new fellow – Fudge was an absolute disaster. This new one appears far more paranoid."

"And that's a good thing?" A new member of the conversation had sauntered over, a man with slick dark hair and an expression of near-constant _ennui_.

"Yes, Scalia, it is," Calliope said in a clipped voice. "My brother and uncle remember the last war much better than I do, and my best friend is an Auror, and _all_ of them are appreciative of more paranoia in the Ministry."

Andrew nodded, "Especially after that interview with that kid – little dude with the glasses – help me out here – "

"Harry Potter?" Calliope raised an eyebrow.

"Yes! Him. I've heard that made quite a few waves."

She nodded and sipped her drink, not voicing her query if Andrew had actually _read_ the interview.

"Well, if you ever need to expound your woes to a willing ear, just send me an owl," Scalia nodded.

"Or me," Andrew interjected.

"Yep. No reason you should be bumming around with folks who don't care." Scalia made a jerk with his head towards the balcony.

"_Hey_," Andrew said sharply. "Watch it."

"It's not for you, Monsieur Scalia, to choose whom I 'bum around' with. But I appreciate your concern." She nodded curtly towards him. "Now, both of– _all_ of you – " she added, seeing that a few ears around them had caught the conversation – "If we could please talk about something other than the war?"

"What war?" asked Juan (a Muggle paralegal, an old friend of Tabitha's) as he went to get a drink.

"In the Mideast," Andrew replied easily.

The sun went slowly down, and the lights in the apartment went slowly up. Jazz music magical and Muggle played nonstop, hitting a plateau when Andrew grooved onto the living room carpet, making it a dance floor. _This_ was one of the more successful minglers of the night, as both parties kicked up their heels. Mark and Andrew took the lead, with each trying to outdo one another's flails and spins to the tune of "Tippermouth Blues," and later, "The Tap-Dancing Crocodile."

When the song ended, Mark, still laughing, went to get some water. He started talking to Tabitha. "Swell shindig you got here." He took a gulp. "Did I sound natural saying that? Swell shindig?"

"A shindig doesn't sound pleasant, I'm afraid," Tabitha replied, good-naturedly. "But don't worry. You looked like you were having a blast on the dance floor."

"Well, yeah. Music's great!" A solitary figure on the balcony – just barely visible through the throng – caught his eye. "Oh, Calliope's sitting out, as usual."

"A shame."

"You're right. And she looks so – pretty tonight. Don't you think so?"

"Mm-hmm," Tabitha nodded, her smile obscured by her cup. "Why don't you go talk to her? Try and coax her onto the floor?"

"You know, I think I will!" Mark gave a nod to Tabitha and wound his way around the dance floor, towards the balcony.

Andrew caught a glance at his sister's face and stopped his little soft-shoe.

"What?" she asked him, all innocence.

"You're brewing something, aren't you?"

"Nothing that hasn't been already cooking, little bro. I just gave it a stir."

Mark approached the tall young lady, who was staring out at the Charles River. "Good evening." He made a sweeping bow. "Care to dance?"

"Thank you, but no thank you."

"Come on, it'll be fun!"

"I don't dance."

"Nonsense! A lady named after one of the Muses should always be light on her feet."

"Calliope was _not_ the Muse of dance. I think she was the Muse of standing still for a long time, describing fight scenes."

"… Okay, I concede that. But all nine of them are always painted as dancing around on their little mountain."

"Well, good for them, but I'm not a Muse, and this isn't a mountain."

"If you insist." A beat. "Care to dance?"

"Mark!"

"What? Maybe you'll change your mind."

"Maybe I'll –"

"Hey folks! Andrew's voice cut through the chatter. "It's 6:45, fireworks will start in fifteen minutes, so what do y'all say to a slow but certain migration to the roof?"

Calliope gave Mark a look as if to say "_So there_." Mark gave a shrug and grinned at her, then went to give Andrew a hand with the drinks cooler. As they wound their way up the stairs, Mark commented, "Man, this is the lightest cooler I've ever hauled."

"I shop wisely," was all Andrew said.

Soon the entire party had reached the roof, with the lights of Boston glowing steadily all around them, and a few stubborn stars twinkling above. All around them a few small – and most likely illegal – fireworks displays were already in progress.

Tabitha found Calliope still on the edge of the roof and walked over.

"Hello," Calliope nodded to her. "Lovely party."

"Thank you, but why're you lurking so much? You're acting like a wallflower."

"I'm not – "

"A _total_ wallflower."

"I've been talking all night. Just because I don't dance doesn't mean I'm a wallflower."

"Mm-hm. And right now you're…"

"Trying to reserve a good vantage point for fireworks viewing."

Tabitha paused. "Good idea." She checked her watch. "Okay, folks, nearly showtime!" She moved to herd the small party towards the side of the roof nearest to the Charles.

Soon, Mark settled in next to Calliope. "I'm not going to ask you to dance this time."

"I didn't think so. You like fireworks too well."

"This… is true. Hey, they're starting the national anthem." At once he straightened up and put his hand on his heart, like most of the company. The strains of 'The Star Spangled Banner' floated loud and clear across the water.

Calliope solemnly began "God save our gracious Queen…" until Mark shushed her.

When the anthem had faded, and the first few fireworks – perennially impressive – went off, the two sat in silence for a long time.

Then Mark commented, "After that conversation we had in the car – about magic and stuff – now I'm all thinking of the fireworks Gandalf set off at Bilbo's party. Now if I had magic, I'd definitely make some crazy cool fireworks."

"Mm."

"If there were a '_Fellowship of the Ring'_ movie, they'd have to have the fireworks. Good ones, too. Wonder who they'd cast. Aragorn would be tough."

"How about – um – what's his name – Gregory Peck?"

"Peck? He'd be no sort of Aragorn at all. Besides, he's dead."

"Oh. That's a shame. How about mister… Laurence Olivier?"

"Dead, too. But – he'd be good. Got the right face. _And_ that means Vivien Leigh as Arwen – I like your casting calls, Miss Ollivander!"

"As you say."

"Now _that_ was a firework!" he exclaimed as a bright gold explosion lit up the dim smoke, and then split off into smaller crackers. The strains of "God Bless the USA" wafted on the air over the smoke. Calliope listened to the warbled words.

"_And I'm proud to be an American,_

_Where at least I know I'm free,_

_And I won't forget the men who died _

_And gave that right to me…_"

"Calliope, are you all right?"

"What?" She turned to look at him. "Nothing's wrong."

"I don't believe you."

"I'm not crying or anything."

"No. But you look absolutely miserable." He looked away from the fireworks to be closer to her. "Is there anything I can do? Even if just – you know – you need someone to listen to you. I'm pretty good at that. Even though I talk a lot."

She gave a weak smile. "I'm fine."

"Again. I don't believe you."

"I'm – " she turned away. "I'm homesick."

"I can't blame you for that. Especially on a day like today."

"No, that's – there's a lot more to this than you know." She took a deep breath and let it out. "There's – I don't even know if I want to tell you this. Or how."

"Start slow. Start at the beginning. Start with a Shakespeare quote."

She paused. "What's a good quote for a – a trouble that I thought was long gone, but that's come back?"

"A trouble?"

"In general terms, yes."

Mark paused, and let another firecracker burst into life and sizzle into death before he said, "'From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.'"

"… That's good. That's _very_ good."

"Thank you. _Romeo & Juliet_."

"That's pretty much it. It takes a really long time to describe. It's not appropriate party talk, either."

"You never cared about party talk before."

"Well, I do now."

"Wait – you're serious? You mean civil blood _is_ making civil hands unclean?"

A blue firework illuminated her face, and the delayed pop punctuated her silence. Then she nodded.

"Jesus," Mark whispered. "The police – can you ask them?"

"It's very complicated. My – technically my brother is a part of the police force. Even he's overwhelmed."

"This is more than just your family?"

"I – I do not want to go into details. Why am I even going into any details? It's nothing personal against you," she added quickly.

He looked puzzled. "Why should it be?"

"But – it's dangerous. Quite dangerous. And I want to – I don't know what I want. One day I'm glad to be here, safe, away from everything that's going on. The next I'm thinking I'm a horrible coward and I want to be home, with my family and everyone I care about. This is – I feel like I'm being pulled apart, and then like I'm just… going stagnant. I don't know what to do."

More fireworks erupted far away from them. Finally Mark asked, "Do you want me to give you advice?"

"I'd – well, I don't know if advice is the right word. But… I'd like to know what you think."

"Okay. This is entirely your dilemma, and I can't help you a lot because I don't know a lot. But you sound like you're the most torn over your indecision. You – I think I know you well enough to say that, when you make a decision, you follow it with all the force of your will. Now you don't know what choice to make, but when you make it, you'll follow it without looking back. That's what I think of you, at least."

She looked at his earnest face. "Maybe you're right."

"You don't yet know enough, so don't torment yourself. You'll get a sign. You'll know when to make your decision, and how."

A slew of fireworks and answering pops and snaps and booms ensued, making conversation practically impossible. But in the light Mark saw her nod, smile, and mouth "Thank you."

The second Sunday in July, the four members of the Ollivander clan who lived in England all gathered for lunch. They met at the family estate, Hollywyck, in Scotland. These dinners were not as common as they should have been – once a month, perhaps – but Servaas Ollivander, who still owned and ran the wand shop in Diagon Alley, declared them his favorite outings on a Sunday.

He dryly called himself the default patriarch – he had no children, but since his older brother had died he was the oldest member of the family left.

Today it was a company of four that Scurry, the Hollywyck house-elf, greeted with delight: Mr. Servaas Ollivander, his apprentice and great-nephew, Hector Gibbs, Tisiphone Gibbs, also called Tess, and Linus Ollivander, whose little sister was studying in Boston.

Today, Tess brought in wine. Linus set a bouquet of late summer asters and dog roses on the table, fresh from the garden. Hector selected an old record of 'Arietta Perk's Classical Songbook' to play. When Uncle Servaas was seated in state, the small luncheon began.

After a period of pleasant conversation, Linus, who had been silent for some time, said, "Oh, Uncle! I saw that a new book has come out by Wendell Stanton – a book about magic without wands, but with other objects. I wondered if you'd seen it?"

"Yes, I'm aware of it, but I haven't taken the time to read it." Servaas' silver eyes were distant. "The Weatherwax theory of magic, so it's called, is one into which I have put considerable study."

"But why?" Tess pushed her long, thick chestnut hair over one shoulder. "Isn't that kind of counterintuitive to what we do?"

"Not in the least. It's essential to understand the theory if one is to be a master of making wands. Isn't it that theory that young Calliope is studying in Boston?"

"Something like that." Linus asserted. "Enchanted objects, implications of magical theory…"

"Good for her." Hector nodded.

Tess shrugged. "Well, someone's got to do the heavy thinking around here." She smirked at Linus. "Just like someone's gotta take care of Muggles who know too much, yeah?"

"Yes."

"By the way, congratulations on your promotion!" Hector added. Around the table congratulations circled around the proud young Obliviator.

"Thank you, thank you," Linus nodded to all.

After Linus has fully explained his new title and responsibilities, he leaned back and smiled in a self-satisfied way. Uncle Servaas nodded and turned to Tess. He asked quietly, "Tisiphone, Plumeria Blotts says that lately you've been seen in the company of a certain young man. 'Going steady' was her term. Is there any truth to this?" When Tess straightened up indignantly, he added "I ask merely as a peculiarly inquisitive great-uncle. It's something of a duty."

"I have made a friend of the masculine persuasion," she began, with hardly any stammering, "I didn't realize that that was such a huge deal nowadays. I have been seeing him around often, but we are _not_ going steady. I'm not looking for anyone to go steady _with_. I have a pretty demanding job of my own. Speaking of which," she added, glad that her thick hair hid her very red ears, "Angus MacFusty told me that a Hebridean female is quite likely to die in the next month or so, and when the day is near he'll let me know and I can go harvest a few heartstrings."

"Great!" Hector chimed, but Mr. Ollivander said, "That is good, but perhaps it will not be necessary."

"What?"

"What're you talking about?" Tess asked. "Of course it's necessary! There are new wands to be made, aren't there?"

"The times are difficult to predict," Uncle Servaas said, taking a bite of his terrine. And he wouldn't say anything more than that.

Just as they were starting dessert, their house-elf, Scurry, entered. She curtsied and said, "There's an owl for master Linus, sir."

Linus had Scurry bring the letter to him, and stood up as soon as he read it. "Office emergency," he said shortly, "I'm needed."

"Well, glad you could make it," Tess shrugged.

"Go on and fight the good fight," Hector smiled at him.

"I'll see you out." Uncle stood up.

"No, that won't be necessary – "

"I insist, Linus. Allow me the pleasure."

Linus adjusted his spectacles, a little surprised. "Of course, then, Uncle. Of course."

"Master," Scurry appeared at Linus' feet, following as he headed for the door, "Your crème brûlée…"

"Just pack it up and drop it off at my flat, please." He smiled on the little creature. "You did a good job today, Scurry."

"Oh! Thank you, sir, thank you!"

Linus put on his Stone Cloak, his new Obliviator's uniform as Uncle Servaas shrugged on a walking cloak. Abruptly, Uncle said, "I'm quite proud of you, Linus."

"Oh?" Linus looked up from his clasp. "Ah… thank you." He looked down a little sheepishly at his cloak, currently the feather in his Obliviator's cap. "I always kind of thought that you'd – well, think me disloyal, for not going into the shop. But…"

"Obviously you've done well in your chosen field." The two men walked step in step out the door and down the garden path.

"It's what I always wanted to do," Linus admitted.

"Except for a brief passion for paleontology," Uncle Servaas muttered.

"What?"

"Oh, a childhood phase. But it's true. The vocation of wandmaker is not for everyone. And I'd be surprised if any child of your mother did not follow their heart's inclination – whether to the Ministry or across the Atlantic, like Calliope. We Ollivanders…" he paused, and picked a bachelor's button from a particularly colorful bed, and tucked it into his lapel. "We are a rather passionate clan, for all our cool exteriors."

"You may have a point there." Linus smiled.

"Believe me, I've known this family a lot longer than you have."

Before long they reached the holly fence that marked the Apparitionable edge of the property.

"Well, Uncle," Linus said, holding out his hand, "I'll see you soon."

"Maybe." Servaas took his great-nephew's hand and held it for a moment. "Do be careful out there in the world, Linus."

"I will be."

"You're – " Uncle paused, unsure what to say. He squeezed Linus' hand and said quickly, "God bless you."

"Thank you. And you too, Uncle." Linus let go of Servaas' hand and stepped through the hedge with a wave good-bye. A loud _crack_ sounded.

Servaas slowly turned around to see Hollywyck itself, standing tall and proud among its wide, rambling gardens. He just looked at it for a long time, as though memorizing every window that the sunlight hit, every beam and carved doorway. Then he took his time walking back up to the house, lingering among the flowerbeds that his own grandmother had arranged, and the little willow cabin an Elizabethan ancestor had built. When he had passed all the places dear to him, he hung up his cloak at the kitchen door and returned to the tiny family luncheon.


	2. The Last Letter

Interlude - The Last Letter

These letters date from late August, 1996.

My Dear Calliope –

I'm glad to hear that you had a good time at the cinema. That film certainly sounds interesting – Halloween personified as singing puppets? Quite an insight into Muggledom! But I don't think I'll have time to see it. Recently a Muggleborn boy of ten caused all the pencils in his classroom to catch fire – so my team's been assigned to that, as well as to the "hurricane" coverage in West Country. Fortunately that's not the worst of it – the North Ireland division was given what appeared to be another werewolf attack only this morning. It's truly horrible.

I don't mean to spoil your morning, of course (or your whenever you read this) but you might be interested in knowing that Dora Tonks came and visited me the other day. I was quite surprised. She was looking for Protsy (he's in the N-Ireland division) to ask after the werewolf attack, but she took a minute to talk to me, asked me what I thought of the Ministry's new security suggestions and pamphlets. I told her, of course, what I've told you. She enthusiastically agreed with me, but didn't express much sympathy when I admitted that I felt paralyzed with all the paranoia around. I know that's a weakness for an Obliviator to express, but considering she's an Auror, and we go so far back, I thought I could share that. I mean, I can only try to go about my everyday existence, pretending that the last fifteen years are still connected to what I'm living.

Here I go, rambling again. You know I'm no good at letter writing. Long story short, Dora gave every impression of being a tough cookie. Anyway, I hope you're well, and be certain that this Muggle boyfriend of yours doesn't try and push his advantage with another cinema. Those darkened cinemas are where all Muggle boys "pull the moves" on girls. If he attempts anything, he'll have ten and a half inches of enchanted walnut wood to deal with.

Do take care of yourself.

Love,

Linus

Dear Linus,

I am not dating anyone, just to get that clear. If you make assumptions like that again I'll not write a word about anyone and leave you to speculate on what we might be doing in those "darkened cinemas." Ha. Ha. Ha. Honestly, Linus, you were never this protective at Hogwarts. There is platonic, mutually respectful friendship based on coffeehouses and the fact that he found me a flat. That's all. (But now I hear you say I protest too much. I move on.)

I miss Dora. Her letters are less and less frequent nowadays. But I know her job is demanding. She's doing good work. And I, at least, think your reaction to everything is perfectly justified and I sympathize. Even some of the American Wizard press is taking notice. Most of the papers haven't tarnished their image of the Little Boy Who Lived, and the idea of You-Know-Who resurfacing is not quite as immediate or terrifying, but it has received a little coverage. It makes me feel all the more disconnected.

Meanwhile, Boston life is about what it ever was – pretty shipshape. The heat is dying down, which is nice, and it'll be another gorgeous autumn, I'm sure. However, I'm _not_ looking forward to resuming my study at Trimontaine U. I took all my fun classes last semester, and have only credit-filling classes to look forward to. See, even writing about it is boring me to tears. And, yes, fine, I'm homesick. I really shouldn't stay away when there's a war on – I've been thinking about moving back home.

Don't overwork yourself, Linus. Good job on the promotion, by the way, I forgot to mention it in my last letter. I'm so proud of you! And I'm sure Mum would be, too, and Dad. (Well, and of course Benny.) Goodnight for me now.

All my love,

Calliope

Calliope – hope you like the postcard. I spotted it in the Museum of Science and thought it'd be nice for my sole 'snail mail' correspondent. Still, you really should get a new telephone. Andy works at AT&T, he can help!

I'm getting ready for my trip to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I need your home-grown Scottish (right?) advice: what to pack, what to beware of, what exactly is 'haggis'? Say we meet up Saturday to confer?

Now I'm out of room. This is why people don't use postcards anymore. Take care – Mark P.

My dearest niece, Calliope –

Consider this an overdue thank-you for the raven figurine you sent me for my birthday. It is most pleasantly executed, and right now he sits overlooking the workbench in the shop, guarding the wood shavings with an amused eye. Or so I like to think.

Hector is coming along quite well in his studies, though he does not have quite the memory for stories and characters of woods as you have. His mind is more analytical, precisely noting what the phase of the moon will do to a wand's capacity for Transfiguration. I confess that my mind is similarly structured, looking for the numbers in the moon, but I do miss the little black-haired girl who ran around my shop asking "why do aspen leaves shake?"

Calliope, I've a riddle for you. Linus said that he mailed you a first-edition copy of Harry Potter's now-infamous Quibbler article from last May. I trust you noticed the peculiar (to phrase it lightly) reaction between Harry Potter's wand and that of the Dark Lord's. He did not elaborate on what caused that stalemate and Priori Incantatem (and with Rita Skeeter interviewing I scarcely wonder), but I wonder: did you recognize what must have caused that? It wouldn't be fair now for me to merely tell you – Potter knows the cause, as does Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord – well, he's certainly going to be most curious – but when I've got a niece such as yourself, I'd like to test your knowledge. Can you guess it?

Exercise your mind, my dear, and do take care of yourself.

Love, from your fond great-uncle,

Servaas Ollivander

Mr. Ollivander put down his quill and sighed, his left hand gently massaging the opposite wrist. He brushed away some curls of wood to find some sealing wax and his seals, and pulled out his wand to set it alight. A sudden thought stopped him, and he put down the sealing wax and instead levitated another piece of parchment over to him, and picked up the quill again.

A Post-Script: Calliope, I hope that the Atlantic Ocean has not washed away a feeling of camaraderie with your British family. This is a terrifying time, and I remember in the first War, how I, snug in my shop, with the happy prospect of visits from your mother and sister and brother – and of course you – felt insulated from all the terrors around me. I could hide from calamities that I knew were undertaken with wands of my own selling or even crafting.

That only lasted so long, though. Your sister Benny's death quite rocked me out of that mindset. But war is an interesting catalyst. When you know the world is changing around you, a part of you will change with it – either into cowardice, blind solidarity, and despair, or to courage and brotherhood and hope. I trust that you, Calliope, will know which way to change. But be aware too of the temptations that present themselves in petty ways, from outside and within. I have already told you of mine – trepidation, complacency, fear of reproach – so if anything should happen to me I will know that to an extent I will have deserved it. But I take comfort that there is no humiliation that cannot be eroded by time's erasure of memory. I hope Hector (and Tess and Linus and Benny, rest in peace) will not mind if I tell you that you were always my favorite among the grand-nieces and nephews.

Servaas Ollivander

Now Servaas put down the quill, and sealed the letter, selecting the Ollivander family seal as opposed to the shop's seal. He could no longer make out the delicate tree and hands on the wax, but he knew Calliope would appreciate it.

He hummed a bit from the Italian opera '_Handful of Beetles_' as he leaned out the second story window and rapped the window frame smartly. An odd pair of owls swooped down, one gold and spotted, the other gray and imposing. Servaas held his fist out to the gray one and said, "You're ready to go home, yes. You like flying across the Atlantic, don't you? Make decent haste, but don't hurt yourself."

The gray owl took the proffered letter with dignity and, with a stretch of silver feathers, was gone into the night sky. The spotted owl waited for a few minutes and then fluttered back up to her perch. Servaas looked up at the stars a moment – even Diagon Alley's air-cleaning charms couldn't bring the stars out as beautifully as in Scotland – and retreated into the warmth of his window. He had just blown out the candle when he heard the locked door click open behind him. He gave a small start and then took a deep breath.

"Forgot to mention that to Calliope," he muttered, "anticipation is the worst part of calamity."

Then he turned around. The moonlight reflected off of three polished wands which were pointed at his necktie. With the voice he used with his customers, he said evenly, "Well, I suppose you've arrived just on time." He stepped forward and pulled his cloak from off his chair. "I won't bother fighting." He took another step, and was now firmly in the midst of his kidnappers. "Let's be off, then."


	3. The Unexpected

The Unexpected

AN: I know this chapter is longer than the last one. I tend to be a garrulous writer, so expect chapters in future to be longer rather than shorter. Also, some of you may have noticed that one character's name switched between 'Tess' to 'Agnes' and back again. That's been fixed, now she is 'Tess,' or 'Tisiphone,' for good.

Thank you, again, for reading.

The sun in Boston was just staining the sky faintly green over the ocean, but had not risen yet. A Great Grey owl had swooped down to the open window into Calliope Ollivander's apartment, where all was dark. It was an inconceivable hour for Calliope to be awake. She was sound asleep and had utterly no intention of waking up.

Someone at her door knocked loudly and woke her anyway.

The knocking continued until Calliope staggered to the door, having slipped her wand into her bathrobe pocket. She noticed that her owl perch was newly occupied, and took a second to close the window behind it and check the writing on the envelope – it was from her great-uncle Servaas. As she put her hand on the knob, one last, loud rap sounded, and she said, "I'm here, you can stop knocking," and pulled the door open. A short woman was standing in the hallway – shorter at least than Calliope, which was an easy feat to achieve.

"Good… morning…" Calliope said slowly, pushing her long, straight black hair out of her eyes, trying to focus on the daringly cut jacket and the flat brown hair. "What can I do for –" suddenly she recognized her. "_Dora!_"

"Wotcher, Callie," Nymphadora Tonks replied, unsmiling and focused.

Calliope stepped aside, ushering her in. "I didn't recognize you, it's been so long – and – and is your hair actually brown? I can't believe it, oh, Dora, do come in –" there was an awkward pause when Dora stepped in. Calliope held out her left hand. Dora took it, then hugged Calliope quickly. Calliope ushered her friend inside.

"Pardon my appearance," Calliope went on, "but this is – er, unexpected. What brings you to Boston? How long have you been in town?

"Approximately a half-hour," Dora said flatly, "Took me forty-five minutes to get here by Portkey."

"What?" As she took Dora to the sofa to sit down, she took another look at her old friend. Dora's face was very drawn, and her skin was a shade that could only be achieved by sincere exhaustion. "Why, Dora," Calliope asked, sitting down beside her, "why were you going all night?"

"I came to tell you something. You must return to England at once." Dora's voice was clipped and had acquired a tone of command which Calliope found difficult to associate with her petite, fun-loving friend.

Calliope blinked. "I beg your pardon? At once? I – I have –" she groped for an everyday reality to thrust into her defense, and couldn't find one. "What's happened?"

"A family emergency," Dora said evenly, though her hand was clutching the overcoat in her lap tightly, "One that not even the Daily Prophet knows of yet. Calliope, your Uncle Servaas is missing."

"What?" Calliope stared at her tight-lipped friend. She didn't speak for a moment, so Dora ventured, "We think…" when Calliope interrupted with "But that's impossible." She gestured to the owl perch. "Ella only just returned with a letter from him."

"Did she?" Dora sat up straight. "Where? Have you read it yet?"

"No – " Calliope got up to retrieve the letter, "It may even be from Hector relaying the news – "

"It won't be," Dora said matter-of-factly, "No owl would reach you _that_ soon. I got hear as soon as I could, as soon as I heard." A pause. "After I talked to Dumbledore."

Calliope came back with the unopened letter in her hands. She sat back down, slowly, her eyes not leaving the parchment. "If he's only missing," she said, "how do you know already that anything's wrong? He may have taken a day trip to Hollywyck, for example."

Hollywyck was the Ollivander ancestral home, in Scotland, which Dora well knew.

"We got a tip-off from a reliable source. We've already taken your cousin Hector under our security. And Weasley's already done a check on the locks on your uncle's doors – they were locked and unlocked by magic, one from the inside, other on the outside."

Calliope stared blankly.

"He specializes in that sort of thing," Dora added helpfully.

Calliope turned away. "Then," she said, the truth beginning to push into her consciousness, "he really is… a captive of the… the…"

"Death Eaters," Dora finished tonelessly. "I'm really sorry, Callie."

"Sorry – sorry? I wouldn't say…" Calliope set her head on her hands, trying to look resolutely forward. "How many hours do you think it's been… Where did it happen?" She seemed to collapse, her face disappearing into her hands, until she folded in on herself. "What do you _know_?"

"We know he was abducted, in his shop, last night at around ten thirty-five, London time. So he's been in captivity for almost eleven hours now." Dora moved closer to her friend on the couch and put her hand on her shoulder. "That's about all that I knew when I left."

"He's so old! He was strong when he was young, but he's not very strong anymore, and what will they do to him?"

"The higher-ups have some idea…"

"I mean, what, is he going to make You-Know-Who a new wand? Every wand has _something_ of the maker's personality in it, and a wand made by coercion will not choose You-Know-Who, I'm certain of it… What else do you know?"

Dora shifted uncomfortably. "There's only speculation… some people – some Aurors – are wondering if he willingly."

Calliope started aback and then repeated fiercely, "Went _willingly_? Are you accusing my uncle of –"

"No," Dora said hastily. "He has always been in Dumbledore's trust, and sometimes confidence, so we assume him innocent until proven otherwise. I'm telling you, all I know is speculation beyond what I just said. But the point is that there was no sign of any struggle. Your uncle may have been Stupefied instantly –"

"Or…"

"We doubt he was killed. The Dark Mark was not sent up, which is often the key sign. He could have been Imperiused. We don't know."

Calliope was breathing slowly, eyes closed, fists to her forehead. "Okay," she said. "Okay, then."

"I'm sorry, dear," Dora said. "I know this is sudden, but I knew you had to hear as soon as possible."

Calliope reached towards the table, and Dora handed her a cup of tea. "No… thank you. I'm – it's good that you told me as soon as you did." She took a gulp of tea. "I wonder if the American papers will report it…"

She was quiet for a long moment, and idly chewed a shortbread cookie. "I have to go home."

"Oh?"

"To England. To Hollywyck."

Dora nodded. "I hoped you might say that."

Calliope was looking around her flat. "This will take about a day to pack… I'll call up Linus and see if I can stay with him… But there isn't a rush." She looked down again. "It's not like he's going to come… strolling… down the street… this afternoon…" she pressed her hands against her face, and her shoulders started to shake.

After a few choked sobs, she hurriedly sat up again, and then picked up her wand to Summon a box of tissues to her (even though the wand itself brought back memories of her great-uncle).

"Do you need anything? Want anything? I'll run downstairs and see what shops are open," Dora offered.

"I'll be fine. I'll be fine," Calliope insisted through a muffler of tissue. "Will you help me pack? I'll have to say goodbye to – some people. Oh god, what am I going to tell…"

"I'll do what I can," Dora attempted a bright smile, "But you know better than to trust me with your china."

"Yeah…" The taller woman took another drink of tea, then looked at her friend. "Did you really come all this way just to tell me that?"

"Ah…"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad I…" She took a breath, "No, actually, I'm _not_ glad I know, but I appreciate you telling me. But there really wasn't a need – I'm sure I would have gotten an owl in the morning…"

"Look, what kind of a friend would I have been to let you take this kind of news by yourself? You didn't let me go through… why are you looking at me like that?"

Calliope took another drink of tea and smudged a tear across her cheek. "I appreciate it, I really do, but your job is so important, especially with the war – who let you come here to comfort me? And what was your little earlier slip about Dumbledore about? What has he got to do with this? _He's_ not the head of the Auror Division."

Dora didn't answer.

"Are you going to answer or not?" Calliope's voice was a little more strained than usual.

"Calm down… I will," Dora said, "but not now. Soon. It will take a while to explain. I came to you because – well, you know that in the First War and now, sometimes Death Eaters don't stop at one member of one family. The Ollivanders are…"

"Nontraditionalists?" Calliope finished, her voice tense. She glanced at the photograph of her mother and father on the mantelpiece. "What, are we blood traitors now too?"

"I didn't say that. And no one could ever say that of your uncle. The Ollivanders are in danger. And, even though I didn't know it when I came, the fact that your uncle sent you a letter, seemingly, right before his capture, is significant. Also, I'm sure that Hector will want your input with your brother and cousin's in regards to what will happen to the shop."

Calliope turned her head to look at her friend. Dora was looking back at her unflinchingly, seeming to be much more wary and subdued than she had always been before.

'_And she's hiding something_,' Calliope found herself thinking. '_She wants something else from me._'

She was staring at the linden wand in her hand. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, shook her head, and stood up. "Listen, do you want to read my uncle's letter now, or – I don't know – shall we have breakfast first?" The sun was up and leaking into the sitting room.

"Breakfast would be a good idea," Dora stood up, "I have been traveling all night…"

"Would you like some coffee? Come into the kitchen…

"Coffee would work, yeah, is it decaf?"  
"I have both, _you_ should have decaf, you need sleep."

Dora perched herself in a chair. "C'mon, I'm an Auror, no need to tell me when to sleep." Calliope didn't have the energy to argue. "Callie," Dora asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'll be okay," she insisted. Then she was quiet for a long time as she poured out cereal and milk. "I guess I'm going to have to tell my friends."

"I would suggest that, yeah."

"I think most of them I can tell by owl…"

"By owl? You're sure?"

"Yes." Calliope gave a last sniffle. "I mean, I don't want any scenes."

At about that same time, in England, in a mansion completely invisible to those who were not told of its existence, Servaas Ollivander stood blindfolded, wrists tied, and tongue silenced. He'd just been informed, in a voice which he recognized with a chill as belonging to Macnair, executioner of dangerous creatures, that he was held captive by the Dark Lord's army and that he might enjoy his stay, if he could. Only one comfort did he have: the secure rustle of a small notebook and pencil in the pocket closest to his very skin: if need be, the paper could be fire, message, or just a refuge for sanity.

"Any questions?" Macnair's voice had finished with a low chuckle.

Servaas paused before answering. "Well," he said carefully, "I don't suppose I can send a message to anyone, so can I ask for someone to know of my dietary restrictions? Or will I just be thrust into your gentle care?"

"A good question," came a new voice, one so high-pitched it was almost womanly, but a voice without any compassion or warmth. Servaas guessed, with a shiver, to whom it belonged. "Which of you will take our honored guest into his house? He must be treated nicely after all, and Macnair hasn't the proper gentle touch."

Murmurs of laughter swam around the room like fish in an unlit pond.

"Anyone?" the Dark Lord repeated.

"If I may, sir," came a voice which Servaas did not recognize, "I think I could make a good host." A male voice chimed, rather loud, scratchy in the lower notes, with traces of a Scottish brogue.

"Any particular interest in this man?" asked the Dark Lord again.

"With your permission, my lord, I should like to run a few experiments on him."

"Oh?" the Dark Lord sounded amused. Louder laughter, like sharks around a seal, rang throughout the room. Servaas' hands tightened in their binds, but he hoped his face was expressionless.

"Experiment away, Turpentine," the Dark Lord said, "but step lightly. We need him alive, after all, and we want all his memory of wandlore to be nice and intact and accessible. They are what we are in need of."

The voice of the man called Turpentine said only "I know, my Lord" and for the next twenty-four hours that was all that Servaas heard of the man who had just been given his custody.

Linus Ollivander's days started when he stood in front of his mirror and put on his glasses, letting him see his own face – snub nose, silver eyes, black goatee. Not liking to be rushed, he would dress and comb his hair while the kitchen fixed his toast, so that he would be all set for the day by the time the Daily Prophet arrived.

Lastly, and most carefully, he put on his new Stone Cloak – the unmistakable uniform of a second-tier Obliviator, which he had recently become. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility along with the weight of the enchanted cloth. He was just doing the clasp – decorated with a star and two moons – when his routine was interrupted.

An owl was tapping at the window, loudly, and persistently.

He went over and let it in. It was a very nervous barn owl, which he recognized as belonging to his cousin, Hector (who also had a tendency to be nervous, though thankfully not to eat small rodents). It had a letter in its beak.

"Thank you," Linus said to the owl, idly noting that he'd have to refill the owl perch's feed bowl. He opened the letter and read it leisurely – or at least started to. After a moment, he gasped and sat back on his bed. His hand covered his mouth in a childish gesture, but he didn't say anything. After he had read over the letter three times, he stared at the carpet, abstracted in fear and despair.

Then he stood up and went to a table by his flat's door. It was covered with photographs, mostly of Linus' family. He stared at two of them in particular: one in which he stood in the wand shop with his Uncle Servaas, on his tenth birthday, a rainy fall morning.

The other photograph showed him and his two sisters, Calliope and Benedicte, when they were all young and together. Benedicte, too, had vanished, in the First War, so long ago that Linus had only a few cherished memories of her voice and kindness.

After a long time, he whispered two words to his uncle's photograph: "Not again."

A few hours later, Hector Gibbs and Linus Ollivander were standing in an office of the Missing Persons Division of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic. Unlike the severe and forbidding courtroom, where Linus had been more than once, this office, belonging to Mr. Jonas Earhart, was in the headquarters of the Missing Persons and Kidnappings Division of the Ministry of Magic, and, designed as it was for confused loved ones rather than sentenced criminals, conveyed a greater aspect of the merciful side of the law – though the law nonetheless. The straight-backed wood chairs were upholstered and stood on thin carpet, while Mr. Earhart, with his flyaway hair and delicate spectacles, peered at his appointment list closely.

"Are all of you assembled?" he asked.

"No," Hector said. "My sister Tess is late. She had to come out from Wales, you know."

"And _my_ sister will have to come out from Boston. So she's not here either." Linus looked more ruffled than usual, and cast his eyes about the Missing Persons office as if it brought up bad memories – which, Hector reflected, was very likely.

The door flew open and Tess Gibbs, looking very ill-tempered, charged in. She dropped into the chair next to her brother. Linus sat up straight, reassuring himself that his black hair and goatee were neatly trimmed, and readjusted his glasses. On his left, Hector, looking more anemic and tired than usual, brushed his pale blond hair out of his eyes. Tess reached out to hold her brother's hand, though her stern face betrayed no emotion. With Linus' black hair, Hector's blond mop, and Tess' thick chestnut ponytail, they did not look very much like cousins.

"Hello, Hector," Tess said distractedly.

"Morning sis." Hector leaned back, glad that Tess was here at last and the anticipation was over.

"Good morning to you too, Tess," Linus cut in from Hector's right.

"Don't you two start on this," Hector began, before Mr. Earhart over-rode them both in a clipped but not hasty or unkind voice.

"So now are all the available parties assembled here? Linus Fortitude Ollivander, Hector Irving Gibbs, grandnephews to the missing, and Tisiphone Imogene Gibbs, grandniece to the missing, through his elder brother Andries Ollivander. This is correct?"

"Yes, sir," all three assented.

"You'll need to give us complete contact information," Mr. Earhart's wand flicked in a habitual manner, and parchment forms flew up and landed themselves neatly in the three laps. "And we'll need to question all three of you separately. Are you willing to set aside, perhaps, a morning for this?"

All three nodded.

"In addition – " Mr. Earhart leaned forward a little, "You understand this is a rather high-profile case. Of course we will put all our available resources into it, but something will depend on whether or not you decide to maintain the shop."

They exchanged glances. "I'll have to consult them in private about that," Hector said quickly.

"Very well, we won't rush you," Mr. Earhart said, though his eyelid twitched as he said that. "I took the liberty of recovering your uncle's will from Gringott's Bank, and I have not yet looked at it, but the goblin Clayborn assures me it delineates the fate of your uncle's shop, properties, and library, and, uniquely, includes a provision for his disappearance." Earhart took the liberty of raising his eyebrows. "You've got an uncle with some foresight there."

If this statement troubled any of the listeners, they gave no sign. Outside the door, the sounds of activity seemed to grow louder. Hector said, "Thank you for procuring a copy of his will, sir. We'll inform you of our decision as soon as possible."

After the contact information had been filled out (street and Floo addresses, work and home), the three were excused to go. As they opened the door, all three stepped aside to make room for a very tired looking family of four who shoved past them to get inside. The hallway was nearly impossible to navigate, so crowded it was.

"So," Hector called over the din, "Shall we get lunch and discuss current events?"

"Sure," Tess replied. "How about the Black-Eyed Stoat's?"

"Sounds fine. Let's get out of here first."

They managed to all push out into the Atrium of the Ministry. As they strode towards the Apparating deck, Tess said evenly, "I'd like to suggest the possibility of recruiting special help to find Uncle Servaas. Special forces."

"Who, the Order of the Phoenix?" Linus snorted. They had entered the deck.

"Yes, or some private inspector," Tess replied. "This is not a random disappearance like – oh, I don't know, Emmeline Vance. This is a threat against the Wizardng populace at large." Politely, Linus and Hector let Tess go first before they turned on their heels and Apparated in front of the Black-Eyed Stoat, an Unplottable pub in Hector and Tess' native neighborhood of Swindon.

"So you don't think they've killed him outright?" Linus said as he stepped up to her.

"No," Tess asserted, "I'd bet he's going to be held for ransom."

"Ransom to be paid by whom?" Linus asked.

"The Minister," Tess promptly replied. As she reserved a table for three, Linus whispered to Hector: "She's given this an awful lot of thought, hasn't she?"

"She likes spy novels," was all Hector would reply. Quickly he changed the subject, saying, "So how soon do you think Calliope will be able to join us?"

Linus sighed. "A day or two at most, I hope. I sent her an owl, right away, but she probably hasn't gotten it yet. I'll let her stay with me, so this should be easy."

"You think she'll think it's worth it to come across the Pond?" Tess asked, but Hector chided, "Sis! Please…"

Half-consciously Linus looked to the sky, dotted with cumulus clouds. "Yeah," he said, "she'll come as soon as she can."

The glare of the parked cars seemed to shimmer in the humidity. As Mark strode out of St. Francis Xavier Elementary, he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He was irreverently whistling a song when he saw Calliope on the corner. She appeared to be looking for someone.

"Hey! Calliope! Hi!" He hurried over to her. "How are you? What are you doing here?"

"I'm – I wanted to see you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Ah… how did your interview go?"

"Really well! I mean, I've got high hopes. I said that before. But I think this guy and I got along. What's up with you?"

"I – I have something I have to tell you."

"Okay, I'm listening." He smiled involuntarily. She swallowed, painfully aware of the earnestness and sincerity in his smile. She thought '_It's time to lie. Time to protect him_.' Then, '_No. He deserves to know something_.'

"Yes?" he coaxed.

"My friend Dora is come into town today," she said in a hurry.

"From England?"

"Yes."

"Wow! I'd really like to meet her."

"Yeah – well, um, I'm going to – be really busy for a few days, y'know…"

"Showing her around?"

"Yeah! Yeah…"

"Say, that trouble back home. Does she have any news about it?"

"Yes…"

"What's up?"

"There's – things have gotten worse. I'm going to be spending some time coping with that."

"Well, I'm sorry, but – definitely I wanna meet her. So introduce if you can, please, okay?"

"Yeah…"

He looked at her. "Are you going back to England?"

"No." She said it abruptly. After another pause she stammered, "But, but I'm really glad for you and that interview."

"Thank you!" when he nodded, a lock of fringe fell into his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure this is going to be great. By the way – tomorrow evening I'm flying out with Bridget and company for the show. Scotland!" he posed dramatically, then, "So I'll be gone this weekend. But make sure I can meet your friend when I get back – if she's still here."

She nodded, then reached over and flipped the hair out of his eyes. "Okay. Mark – thank you for listening to me the other night."

"You mean the Fourth of July?"

"I guess…"

"Of course. Anytime."

"Okay. Thank you. And for… well… um… good luck." She nodded and smiled thinly. '_Stay away from me,_' she thought. '_Please stay away from England. Stay away from the Death Eaters_.' "I'll see you later," she heard herself say.

"Do you need a ride?"

"No, thank you."

"Then I'll see you around – or, when I get back."

"Okay… good."

"Bye!"

"Good-bye…"

He waved as he got into his car. She waved back stiffly. When she began to walk away, she said "That went well," in a low, flat voice.

Andrew DuPont and Mark were talking on the telephone (with much static on Andrew's end, but Mark was used to that by now.) Mark was wrapping up his story of his interview earlier that day: "… So yeah, that's how it went. Just wanted to keep you posted."

"Thanks, Mark. Good to know. You all packed?"

"Absolutely. Oh, one other thing – Calliope met me outside the school."

"… Oh?"

"Yeah. Said a friend of hers is in town. So we'll have to all get together when I get back, right?"

"Um… she didn't tell you?"

"Didn't tell me what?"

"Ah… um… she's had a family emergency. She's going back to England."

"When?"

"Tonight, I think. I'm surprised she didn't tell you…"

"How long will she be gone? Do you know?"

"I don't know."

Mark was silent for a while on his end, then said, "She was talking about moving back to England to stay… Um, Andrew, I've got to go."

"Where? What are you doing?"

"Nothing dangerous. See you next week."

And Mark hung up.

The lamps were gone, the window shades were drawn, and the only light was austere and unforgiving. Calliope's flat was empty, all her belongings nearly all packed away.

Even her faithful, hardworking owl, Ella, had taken flight. Calliope had coaxed her to fly to the house of a friend to seek out a new home, and had attached a note to said friend to Ella's ankle for the last time. Then she'd watched her first real connection to American life fly away into the thickening night.

After Calliope had slammed the window shut, she'd stood and looked at the bare, expressionless rooms. She had packed everything, now there were only her emotions to sort out.

Dora, coming in from the restroom, checked the clock on the wall, and said "Hmm," in a calculating way that Calliope, back in their school days, had learned meant trouble. "There's a Portkey leaving in a half-hour, if we Apparate there now we can get tickets."

Calliope snapped out of her reverie. "_Now_? Dora, you're insane!"

"Why? We've no time to waste!" Dora turned on Calliope, but at once her face softened into a self-amused smile. "Ah, cor, I sound like Mad-Eye, don't I?"

"_The _Mad-Eye? You mean Moody?"

"Yep. He's my mentor. I guess he's rubbing off on me. Like shoe polish. He's crazy about keeping to schedules."

"Granted, Hufflepuffs take easily to schedules." Calliope pulled on a long black coat she'd last worn in March – it was too bulky to be easily packed. "Well, if Moody's been teaching you, I guess I can accept some discrepancy between you and the Dora I knew of yore."

Dora nodded. "Please forgive me for being so tense, Callie." Dora was one of perhaps two people left alive who could refer to Calliope as "Callie." "But all the time I'm worried that there's some emergency that desperately needs me. Being in the Or – being an Auror is an incredible strain in these times."

Calliope felt suddenly rather ashamed. "If we've got to go, no use putting it off. Go on and order the tickets."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'll catch up with you at the Portkey. No point in waiting."

"Oh, great. All right, then." Dora ran to Calliope and kissed her cheek lightly, planting an involuntarily smile on both their faces. "Thanks," she said. "I'll get your luggage, too." She carefully levitated the large suitcases, Calliope's cello and violin cases, and the hatbox, and Calliope helped her take them downstairs. As per Boston city regulations, could not be Apparated or Disapparated into or out of. Instead, there was a phone booth across the street which had a good resonance for Apparation.

Calliope sighed as Dora's footfalls faded away and she went to her room to pack up her nightstand. Much like in her brother's flat, she had stored her most beloved photographs by her bedside. For packing, only her denim satchel and her small suitcase were left.

The first photograph she picked up was of herself and Uncle Servaas on her tenth birthday. His gift to her had been eleven and a half inches of springy linden wood and phoenix feather, which had a strong affinity with the natural elements. Her ten-year-old self held her wand proudly in the photograph, while Uncle Servaas looked on, with a proud and slightly detached smile.

Calliope took that photograph out of its frame and tucked it into her brown leatherbound journal. The next picture was of her mother and father's wedding day. Calliope glanced at herself in the wall mirror, hoping to see some resemblance to the beaming English lass crowned with pink roses. The groom and his soft smile seemed to dim in comparison to his bride, but Calliope loved noticing how their hands clung to each other at the bottom of the frame.

She slipped those two photos into her suitcase, followed by the last photo of all, Hollywyck in Scotland's high summer. Hollywyck had been built in the full flower of Mock Tudor architecture, with the high eaves, paned windows, and striking color that such architecture required. Standing by the door of the house – merely a stripe of color in the photo – was a young girl whose name and history Calliope knew well, though they had never met. The back of the photo said only "Benny at Hollywyck" and gave a date before Calliope's birth.

All went into the suitcase; everything was going to change. Calliope was aware of the time she was losing. Then, when she took one last, long look around her apartment –

"This is it," she said aloud. "This is how things are going to be. I'm going to England, and I'm going to be in the war. And I'm not going to look back."

Gripping her suitcases with her right hand and swinging her purse over a corner of her suitcase, she pulled her wand out with her dominant left hand and pointed it at the door. It opened the door to her journey, and shut and locked itself when she exited.

Down the stairs she rushed, not even pausing to tuck her wand into her pocket. From her second-story apartment she sped down the stair and into the lobby, and taking a deep breath, she ran out the door.

She was wearing a black coat, and it was night on a street with little traffic. Her apartment building stood near the corner, and Calliope, heedless of Muggle traffic laws (she could never keep them straight), had run straight into the road, making for the Apparation-friendly phone booth across the street.

She didn't see the car until five seconds too late.

The driver got the shock of his life – in more ways than one – when his headlights caught the black-coated figure that ran in front of him, right before he heard a horrible thump as the front of his car slammed her, splaying her figure against the night.

He stood on the brakes.

She let out a brief, high-pitched scream – and vanished with a crack like a gunshot.

Mark Printzen, leaping out of his car, opened his eyes wide against the darkness to see – nothing. The woman whom he knew he saw – whom he thought was Calliope – was nowhere to be found.

A nearby clatter caught his ear. He turned to see a long, perfectly straight stick of white in the light of the streetlamp, rolling towards the gutter and storm drain. With adrenaline still coursing in his veins he sprang for it and caught it just before it fell in.

Holding it up to the light, he found it to be very light and made from what seemed to be pale wood. Around the thicker end of it was carved what looked like a handle and a collection of branches and leaves, growing upward, intertwining.

There also – he looked closer – was a splash of fresh blood – he leapt back with a gasp – on the handle.

Not far away, Boston traffic roared.

He looked around him into the answerless night and softly called, "Calliope?"


	4. Leaving America

Leaving America

AN: Disclaimers still apply, especially as my original characters are entirely mine.

Thank you, again, for reading.

Dora was standing, tickets in hand, by the gate which was the last Apparitionable spot in the Massachusetts International Keyport. It was unlike Calliope to be late, she thought, and with an ironic smile, unlike Dora to doubt her friend. She heard two more Apparation pops behind her and turned automatically to see if one was Calliope – but she saw that a black-clad woman, splayed across the floor, had already gathered around her something of a crowd.

"Get her out of here!" one person said.

"How? _Mobilarcorpus_, do you think?"

"Are you okay, dear?"

"She's with me!" Dora called, shoving through them to reach Calliope, who had half-sat up by now, trembling visibly and – Dora's mind immediately switched to Auror mode – clutching her bloody left hand tightly.

"Come on, Callie, let's get you out of here," Dora said, and with a flick of her own wand parted the crowd to half-support Calliope to the main gate, pausing only to enchant their luggage to follow them and show their tickets to the security guard. Sitting Calliope down on a bench, she asked "Callie, would you like a glass of water? I have a couple Chocolate Frogs in here, I know I do –" Dora fumbled in her bag for a bottle of essence of dittany. "It's a very small splinch, isn't it? C'mon, open your hand –"

Calliope opened up her left hand willingly enough (it was a nasty sight) but protested feebly through clenched teeth "It wasn't the splinch –"

"Remember our first Apparition test in sixth year, when Charlie Weasley disappeared from sight and we learned he landed on top of an old dear doing her shopping?" As Dora said this, a Healer dressed in the slate-blue uniform of the Keyport approached them. "Registered Healer here," he said, tapping the badge on his jacket, which bore the Rod of Asclepius. "Is everything okay?"

"If you could give us more dittany," Dora said, "and maybe a glass of water –"

"No problem," he said, pulling a jug of iced water and a tumbler out of his left sleeve, and a large green bottle of dittany from his right pocket. "That's very smart, to keep some dittany on hand, but you _have_ applied it rather unevenly, thankfully this is just a minor splinch, I've seen far worse –"

"It wasn't the splinch," Calliope hissed again, so low that only Dora could hear.

After the Healer had tied a sterile bandage around the wound (now clotting rapidly under the pungent dittany oil) and refilled Dora's bottle of the same, and bid them a cheery good-bye, Dora said, "Come on now, the gate's not too far, but we've only got a moment before boarding…" and led Calliope to the gate.

"Dora," Calliope said quietly, "It was not just a splinch. There was a car. A car came out as I ran to the phone booth, I heard a horn beep, and the light flashed at me – "

"What? Did it hit you?"

"Well," Calliope took a shuddering gasp, "It slammed into me, into my side…"

"Where?" Dora interrupted. Taking her right hand from Dora's, Calliope touched her thigh, her hip, and ribcage. "Just my general right-side area," she continued, "but not very hard. I think I'll be bruised badly. But I was frightened and hurt and – I Disapparated."

Dora's eyes widened. "And you think that the driver saw you?"

"And saw me Disapparate."

Dora stopped walking (forcing Calliope to stop too) and didn't say anything for a minute. "Did you recognize the driver?"

"No. It was a silver car. All cars look alike to me."

Dora considered this. "So, chances are, the Muggle-we-assume driver is still lurking outside your apartment wondering where the mysterious woman that he hit went off to. Well… chances are he'll just drive away…"

"_Wait_!" What little color had started to come back into Calliope's face drained.

"What? What now?"

"My _wand!_"

"Oh no…" Dora looked around. "Maybe you dropped it in the terminal…"

"No, no, I had it in my hand when I ran out. I just used it to lock the door. And my hand got Splinched… it must be out on the street! Dora, can we –"

"We can't go back, we don't have time."

"But it's –"

"I _know_. Breathe, Calliope." Dora didn't say anything else until she made sure that Calliope had taken a few deep breaths. "We do not have time. But we have time to post an owl."

"An owl? Oh… wait, I see. Yes. I can write to Andrew and ask him to find my wand."

"Yes, and he will. You can even send more than one letter. Don't worry about it. You've had a very long day."

Calliope nodded dully, staring at the bandage on her left hand. "Yes. You're right."

"Of course I am. Now, if I remember, I think the post owls are over here. And here's your luggage. And after that, you're _going_ to drink some tea."

"And then…" Calliope, sighing once, took the handle of her violin case gingerly in her hand, and stood up straight again, "And then back to London?"

"Back home to London."

Less than a half-hour later, Andrew had reached the front of Calliope's flat. Mark was still there, just coming out of the apartment's lobby. He glanced up at his friend.

"Andrew?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Just in the neighborhood, though I'd see if Calliope was still around. Has she gone?" Andrew strode forward, hands in his pockets.

"That's the question," Mark answered, standing in the glare a streetlamp beside his car and frowning. "The receptionist in there said she _just_ saw Calliope leave a moment ago. I just came in a minute ago, but saw no trace of her – not a disappearing taxi or –" His sentence stopped suddenly and he glanced sidelong at Andrew. "There was – something."

"Something – you saw?"

"Saw… and hit."

"Hit? What was it?"

"It _looked_ like Calliope. I thought I'd hit her for a second, and I felt the impact of it in my car, but when she screamed, there was a crack like – like a tree branch breaking, and she was gone."

Andrew nodded, brow furrowed. "Have you told anyone else about this?"

"No. Just you."

"Good. Let's keep it that way for now." Andrew surveyed Mark's car. "Not a scratch on your vehicle…"

"There was something else – more than whoever I hit."

"What's that?" Andrew looked up quizzically. Mark was looking uneasily up and down the street. He was clearly edgy. Finally Andrew broke the silence, saying, "Look, how about we go back to my place?"

"Are you sure? You sure I should leave a crime scene…"

"What crime? There's no evidence of anything you hit. C'mon. You're frazzled."

So Mark drove them to Andrew's apartment. He had stashed the white stick in his glove compartment. He had _thought_ that he'd show it to Andrew right off, but some instinct told him to hold off on it.

Tabitha was out for the evening. The space, which had been so full of noise and activity on the Fourth of July, stood quiet in the lull of everyday ambient noise. But it was familiar to Mark, who sat at the little table and glanced at the mementoes of Andrew and Tabitha over the years.

Meanwhile, Andrew took some time in fixing a glass of water for Mark in the Muggle way.

A few photographs stood on the shelves around the table. Mark himself featured in a few snapshots: at a Little League game, at their elementary school graduation, at their first St. Patrick's Day parade as 21-year-olds. Good times. Mark felt calmer already.

Andrew had Mark relay piece by piece the events of earlier that night. When Mark closed his story with, "And then _you_ came along," Andrew leaned back in his chair and appeared to be thinking deeply. Mark's hands were tight around his cup of cranberry juice and his mind was racing. "Do you think we should go to the police about this?"

"The police? Mark, don't overreact now."

"But Calliope – I have to make sure she's okay."

"She's probably over the Atlantic by now. And if she's not fine, she'll let me know."

"But…" Suddenly Mark got an idea, staring at the calendar on the wall. "What if… No. Never mind." Mark's mind was now pursuing its idea, making conversation difficult. "Sorry if I sound rambling…"

"It's okay," Andy said warmly. "You just hit a person with your car."

"… Yeah. You're a good friend."

"Thanks. So – Mark, how about I handle everything from here?"

"What?"

"Seriously, look at it this way. You have plenty to worry about. Your job interviews, the vacation you're taking… I'll find out from someone at work where she's staying and check up on her. How's that sound?"

"… It makes a certain amount of sense."

"Exactly."

"But, I mean, I'm going to England already…"

"Scotland. Totally different place."

"But still, I'm heading there myself, and I know her better than you do – did you just _snort_?"

"No," Andrew lied hastily.

Mark glared at him. "I _do_," he said, "You may be her co-worker, but I'm her friend, and since _I_ hit her after all…"

"If you hit anything," Andrew added.

"What if I just want to see her in England for myself?"

"No, I really think you should let me handle this."

"Andrew…"

"Mark. Trust me." Andrew gave a smile. "Have I ever let you down before?"

"No, but…"

"But what?

Mark paused. To keep a secret like this from Andrew was hurting him – but a secret for Calliope was very different.

"Come on, please, tell me," Andrew coaxed.

"What I found," Mark began, but stopped. Footsteps were rushing up towards the door. Then there was a loud knocking – more like a pounding.

"I'll get it," Andrew said in a hurry. "I won't be long." He stepped out.

Mark could hear him ask, "Who is it?" cautiously.

"It's me, Scalia. Open up."

The door opened a crack. "Could you come back later?"

"This is urgent!"

"Okay…" reluctantly Andrew let him in. "But please keep your conversation –"

"Did you get Calliope's owl?" Scalia demanded.

Mark heard that. Quietly he stood up to be nearer the conversation, but still out of sight.

Andrew hissed, "Listen, Mark is here, so keep your talk family friendly, okay?"

"What on earth is he doing here?"

"I found him at the accident sight."

Scalia's eyes widened. "Of course. _He_ hit her with his car, didn't he?"

In a whisper, Andrew replied, "I think so."

"Of course. Why am I not surprised? Muggles around here are always driving like maniacs…"

"Will you lay off for once on him?"

"In this instance, when he nearly ran Calliope down, I think my annoyance is somewhat justified."

"Well, what do you suggest we do now?"

"Did you find the wand?"

"No, but I didn't have a chance to look. And you?"

"I performed a Summoning Charm – several times – but no luck."

"Keep it down, here, walk this way… I'll be there in a minute, Mark!" He led Scalia into Tabitha's office. Mark quietly followed into the foyer.

"But the wand…"

"I think Mark may have it."

"Really?"

"He was going to say something before you barged in, so if you wait here I'll go back and coax him to show it to me –"

"Coax? Why not just Summon it now and then Modify his memory?"

"I'm not going to do that! Mark's my friend, and beside, I'm lousy at Memory Charms anyway."

"Then _I'll_ do it."

"The hell you will!"

"Why do you get so sentimental about this? Any other wizard would be fine, but—"

"Every other wizard _you_ know, but I call it having standards."

"Really? Because not modifying the memory of a Muggle who's stolen a wand and – "

"We don't know for sure."

"Looks like lax standards to me."

"If it's good enough for a witch like Calliope and a wizard like me, it should be good enough for you."

"Same we can't get Calliope's consent because she's probably already halfway across the Atlantic by now, after having _been hit by car_." Andrew sighed angrily, but Scalia pressed on. "If we don't take the wand from him by force, what will happen next? He'll ask questions. He'll want to know _everything_. It won't stop until daybreak and we'll never get him to yield the wand until I write and give an oral presentation on _all _Magical history _ever_. Meanwhile, Calliope is missing her wand in the middle of this mysterious 'family emergency.' And, we are telling a Muggle who has _not_ been given Clearance all about our world."

Andrew mumbled, "I always meant to tell him…"

"But now? Is now really the time?"

"… No."

"No. Now is the time to get Calliope her wand back."

"You're right."

"So Modify his memories, Stun him, take it, mail it?"

"Yes. You can do that." Andrew turned around to put his hand on the doorknob. "But be gentle."

"I know what I'm doing!"

"Do you think Calliope will still be at the Keyport, or should we just mail it to her in London?"

"Actually, I have no idea."

"Well, let's look at her letter." A pause. "… Damn it."

"What?"

"I left it in the kitchen. We'll have to go out past Mark."

"It won't matter. We'll Modify his memories anyway. Come _on_."

A squeal of tires sounded from outside. Scalia scoffed. "Heh. Someone's driving like crazy."

Andrew's eyes widened. He threw the door open and rushed to the dining area, then the balcony. When Scalia demanded "What?" Andrew called out "Mark! Mark!"

Andrew flung himself onto the balcony to look at the street below. In all the lights and noise of the street, Mark's car was nowhere to be seen.

Mark was in his apartment, alone. The door was locked. When the phone rang he didn't answer. He sat on his couch, laying the white stick of wood carefully in front of them. Muttering, "If I didn't know any better…" he picked up a crisp, fresh new copy of _'So You Want To Be A Wizard_.' With the reverence afforded to a just-bought book, he flipped the pages until he found the passage he was looking for. He scanned it, then glanced up at his poorly-but-lovingly mounted bookshelves on the wall to see all the other fantasy titles staring back at him. He shook his head.

"Magic wands – impossible. Just impossible."

But he got up and paced back and forth, trying to make some sense of the night's events, and the innocuous-seeming wand with its blood on the kitchen table. On a sudden inspiration, he took the white wand and rapped the refrigerator door smartly with it ("wand" had already replaced "stick" in his mind.) Nothing happened. He tapped it again and said "Open sesame!"

Nothing still happened. He wondered what he was doing trying to break his own refrigerator, and desisted.

He put the wand carefully on the table and began counting on his fingers.

"1. Andrew is hiding something. Andrew, my best friend since fourth grade, is hiding something big from me.

"2. He's in cahoots with Scalia – a jerk.

"3. Andrew mentioned knowing Calliope much, much better than I do. There are some possibilities:

"A. Andrew is delusional. And Scalia is delusional. They're stuck in the same delusion – which they never ever talk about? But they could be cultists. Then again, they were talking about wands, and what we have here is a wand that belonged to Calliope, and which they were anxious to return to her. This may mean,"

Mark paused in an attempt to come up with a suitable opening for the new idea, flashing back to reviewing outlines with his fifth-graders.

"i. Both Calliope and Andrew are/were delusional and think these sticks hold some… symbolic or, maybe, totemic power for them."

He paused. "Counter-i. Delusion does not allow one to vanish into thin air.

"Possibility B. the sticks _do_ have power, and –" he stopped, "Counter-B: that's freaking impossible, _resuming_ B, the sticks have power which Calliope used to disappear… Dissent to B, how did she vanish and leave her stick behind if it's important? How and why? Dissent to dissent, of course, getting hit with a car _would _do that to a person… and that's why Calliope was always ignorant of traffic laws… maybe even that's why she never got a telephone! If she and Andrew can communicate with their wands – sticks – " he paused. "No wonder he says he knows her better.

"These are important questions," he resumed. Are the sticks wands? Do they have power? Can I access this power, or is it just Calliope, Andrew, and that jerk Scalia? Why did neither of them tell me before? Perhaps they had their reasons, but the next question is, how do I find out?"

He went to his kitchen and poured himself a second glass of cranberry juice. "I could," he mused, "Go back. Drive back, or call Andrew, and talk about what he meant. But considering how he and Scalia were talking about – what, changing my memory? I do not like the sound of that. On the other hand, I could wait until Calliope comes back home – and _ask_ her."

A pause.

"Boring. Or, I could… chase her. Once I'm in Scotland and after I've seen Lydia's play, I can try and seek out Calliope in England. She's talked about places she's been. I can try and find them. Andrew and the jerk talked about her like she wouldn't be coming home for a while." His eyes wandered between the plane tickets on the refrigerator and the calendar of faraway Hawaii on the wall. "Has its benefits. Talking to Andrew, I risk losing a friendship from the past fourteen years. And my memory. Finding Calliope, I give Andrew and Scalia a chance to cool down from why-ever they wanted to attack me, and, even if everything goes cataclysmically wrong, I get to go to England. I should go once in my life. I really should."

He took a swig of cranberry juice, which served, as it had in every crisis of his life, to steady his nerves. He took another swig before resuming his monologue: "It would, however, be rude at the very least – inconsiderate, selfish, disrespectful – to drop in on Calliope and demand all her secrets in a family emergency." He winced. "And after I took her wand – stick." Another wince. "And after I hit her with my car."

He stopped his monologue and took a deep breath, studying the wood grain on the familiar table, in the familiar kitchen.

"I think – " he said at last, but did not finish the sentence. He quietly took his suitcase, all packed for his weekend trip to Edinburgh, out of his room, and tucked in a few more shirts and boxers, just in case. He also threw in a battered copy of '_Europe on Ten Dollars a Day,'_ inherited from his mother and no doubt outdated, and his new copy of '_So You Want To Be A Wizard_,' for reading material, and plenty of spare cash. Then, he took a Post-It note and tried to make a list of all the places that he'd heard Calliope mention specifically: the Leaky Cauldron, on Tortile Street, was the only one he could recall at that time. He put the note into his journal, and let it go at that.

He then changed into his pajamas and made up a bed on the couch, where he fell into an uneasy, dream-tossed sleep.

The weather in London was a sharp contrast from Boston's humidity and oppressive heat: even though August was just waning, the sky was uncommonly overcast and fog lay in the morning air thicker than usual.

"So, where am I staying, for now?" Calliope ask Tonks as they left the Keyport on the outskirts London. Calliope was still fingering the gauze bandage on her left hand as if that could replace the cool feeling of linden wood.

"For the time being," Dora said, "you'll be staying with me, in Hogsmeade. I already had your luggage expressed there."

"You're very on top of things."

"It's in the job description. First, though, we need to make a detour."

"A detour? To where…? The wand shop!" Calliope concluded out loud.

"No," Tonks said in that serious, clipped tone of before. "We're paying a visit to Alastor Moody's house. You can Apparate, It isn't too far from here – just take my hand."

Calliope slipped her right hand into Dora's, noticing how cold it was, and clutched her satchel with her left hand as tightly as the stinging pain would allow. They Disapparated and opened their eyes to an unattended street shadowed by an overgrown Lombardy hanging out of someone's front yard. Calliope looked up at it warily.

"He keeps Lombardies?" she asked.

"No," Dora said, "his neighbor from a half-a-block down does. Be ready."

"So which way does Moody live, exactly?"

"That way," Dora pointed left. "Follow me _exactly._"

She then proceeded to turn right and, still grasping Calliope's hand, began walking.

"Wait, Dora – you just said…"

"This is Moody's house we're talking about," Dora said. "I think you met him once or twice."

"Oh, yes," Calliope recalled suddenly, "He used to come to my house for Christmas dinners, but stopped after – some time."

"So you know him. He'll not make his house easy to find. Paranoid, but brilliant. Right now, he uses magic that traces intentions – I know how to get past all these. He's been teaching me, remember. Now, keep your eyes on your feet, but don't let go of my hand."

Calliope complied as well as she could. She focused on her black, Cuban-heeled, buttoned boots, and looking ahead to Dora's tattered and stained but unquestionably comfortable leather boots. But Calliope's vision was attracted by something else. The edge of the sidewalk, the flowers on the walks, all began to look slightly warped to her sight, like glass in a paperweight.

"Stay close," was all Dora said.

Calliope resolved to not look up from the ground, but her peripheral vision picked up the too-sudden alterations in the neighborhood, twists and turns as if she were being spun.

"It senses your intentions," Dora said helpfully. "That's really the simplest way to describe it – and rest assured, I know all the tricks. Brace yourself."

They passed a low garden wall and suddenly, a black dog, a Doberman, lunged across the corner of the wall at them, barking so loud Calliope's head rang. She blinked and the dog was joined by two others, and it looked like more were coming around the corner, and –

"Close your eyes. Keep walking."

"What? And let them attack – oh. Just illusion."

"Yes."

Calliope winced at the dogs. "Very loud illusion." She shut her eyes tight and within a few seconds the barks faded away and died.

"Almost there –" after a few more steps, Dora stopped and guided Calliope's hand to what felt like a gatepost, and pulled her inside it.

"Okay. Open your eyes, Callie."

Calliope blinked and saw a very simple, but neat backyard, featuring a bench, and a device that looked like a birdbath (complete with sparrows), but which Calliope suspected had a much more nefarious purpose (probably the sparrows were equipped with Stunning Spells). Ivy grew all over the garden walls and climbing roses (probably with poisoned thorns) lined the doorway. In the doorway stood the grizzled and bent figure of Alastor Mad-Eye Moody, looking at Dora with his keen black eye and at Calliope with his over-eager electric blue one.

"Took the back door, did you Tonks?" he growled. "I knew you'd take none but the easiest route with your guest. She could've handled the front door. Come on inside." As he turned to go, Dora leaned to Calliope and whispered, "Notice the marigolds under the window. They're his one and only aesthetic indulgence."

"And don't you mutter like that either!" Moody called. "I won't have you prejudicing Philomel Ollivander's daughter against me."

Calliope gulped and let go of Dora's hand, striding forward in step with her.


	5. Entering England

Entering England

AN: Disclaimers still apply, especially as my original characters are entirely mine.

I feel compelled to add – if you have something to say, feel free to leave a review! And thanks.

In the leather backed chair of Moody's basement based home office, Calliope sat up straight and read aloud, for the first time, her uncle's letter to her of yesterday. Tonks, perched on the arm of the couch, leaned on her elbow against the bookshelf, her light brown hair unconsciously relaxing to shoulder length. Moody sat upright and alert, one eye fixed on Calliope while the other never stopped checking the doors and windows.

"'My dearest niece Calliope,'" she began, "'consider this an overdue thank-you for the raven figurine you sent me –' I'd picked that up in a flea market in Cape Cod, you see," she interrupted herself, "and thought –"

"Don't annotate, read!" Moody snapped.

Calliope without pause resumed reading, a little louder than before, and more like she was reciting an equation than reading a letter. Her voice did soften, however, when Servaas recalled "the little black-haired girl who used to run around asking why aspen leaves shake." Calliope swallowed and then began to read in a more natural voice. When she arrived at Servaas' reference to the stalemate formed between Harry Potter's and the Dark Lord's wands, Moody gave a low "hmm," which stopped Calliope. She looked up at him. He waved his hand to indicate continuing. It was only another paragraph until she finished that page and pulled out the next one.

She paused often on that page, but always resumed quickly, only once muttering "He sounds rambling..." the silence in the room felt absolute as she finished, "I hope that Hector, and Tess and Linus and Benny, rest in peace, will not mind when I tell you that you were always my favorite among the grand-nieces and nephews. Servaas Ollivander." She stared at the signature at the bottom a little longer. Dora leaned forward to sigh, "Well, that last bit almost sounds like a last will and testament."

"Suicide note's what I was thinking," Moody added, looking out the window. "He certainly seems to have known of his capture – unless, that is, he regularly writes as if today is the last day he'll be alive?"

"No, only _you_ write like that, Mad-Eye," Dora said evenly. "What are you looking out the window for?"

"Sent a message soon as I knew you were coming. Reply's awfully late, unless – a-ha!"

Dora turned to see. Calliope started to get up for the window, but shrank back as Moody sprang out of his chair to hobble out of the basement.

"Who's coming?" She asked Dora. Dora looked at her almost pleadingly. "I should have told you before, I guess…"

"Told me what?" Calliope asked, following Dora up the stairs. At the head of the stairs Dora turned to face her.

"Callie," she said, "I'm more than a Ministry-employed Auror. For the last four years, I've also been working in the Order of the Phoenix."

The sound of the door opening creaked between them.

"The – the Order? That still exists?" This from Calliope, flabbergasted.

"Yes," Dora said, "it's re-organized under Albus Dumbledore."

"But, how can you –"

"Miss Ollivander," came a man's voice, very old but calm, assured, "I am so glad to see you."

Albus Dumbledore had appeared at the top of the stairs. "Please forgive my lateness, but the new Head of Durmstrang wanted my blessing before accepting her post. Shall we go into the sitting room?"

Calliope was now thoroughly dazed. But she remembered her manners: climbing the last stair, she shook Dumbledore's hand. He had extended his left hand, which Calliope first saw as a courtesy toward a left-handed lady, but then she spotted his right hand, preternaturally blackened, gave a small gasp, but suppressed it.

As they walked to Moody's sitting room, Dora seemed to be avoiding Calliope's eye. Moody had already taken a seat in his armchair and beckoned Dumbledore to sit opposite him. Calliope and Dora sat together on the loveseat, neither looking at the other.

"Believe me, Alastor," Dumbledore began, "I did attempt to come post-haste, but I am glad that you began regardless of my presence. If you'll allow me to see the manuscript –"

"Miss Ollivander has it," Moody nodded to Calliope, who clutched the paper in her hand and extended it to Dumbledore, saying, "Of course, here."

Dumbledore took it gingerly with his injured hand. He pulled a wand out of his pocket (Calliope noticed that his pocket held two wands, one battered, with a reddish sheen, over which he delicately passed), and a piece of parchment out of another. As he duplicated the ink and pattern on Servaas' letter and transferred it to the new parchment, he cordially asked, "Is anyone thirsty?" he then floated the parchments gently down, waved his wand again, and a flagon of mead appeared, accompanied by four tumblers. They filled and distributed themselves as he asked, turning to Calliope, "Miss Ollivander, I hope you will forgive us. You must feel very confused by now."

"A little, sir," She answered.

Dumbledore swirled the mead in his tumbler around a little, as if letting its flavors mix, before saying, "I wish you to be more at ease. How has your life been since you graduated Hogwarts? You were a Ravenclaw, I remember."

"Yes, sir." Calliope took a sip of the mead; it was quite tasty, but she puckered her mouth at the taste of alcohol. "And after my mother died, I moved to the United States, just for a couple of years. Just to study."

"What field, exactly?"

"Magical theory," she stared into her drink, "and advanced music studies. Violin and cello. Have you been to America, Professor?"

"Twice," he replied, "And never for very long, but it was worth it, to see the Statue of Liberty, and the sun set over the Pacific, in a Ferris wheel – not in the same day, of course." He gave a chuckle. "Well, Alastor, what is your interpretation?"

"Servaas Ollivander knew someone was out to get him," Moody flatly stated. "Or at least that something would happen to him. He doesn't seem to be the one to take action. Furthermore," he nodded again to Calliope, "it seems he pegged _this_ one to know what was up."

"Me?" Calliope repeated.

Dora nodded. "Mr. Ollivander wrote that Calliope was very clever, in a way different from himself. He said he liked that. Also, he asked her to figure out the meaning of the Priori Incantetum fiasco from the night of the Third Task."

"Interesting," Dumbledore said. "Miss Ollivander, do you think you could answer that?"

"Y-yes," Calliope said, "with a little research."

"Of course, with research. But if I may override your great-uncle's request, I think it is more pressing for you to come and work with us. With the Order of the Phoenix."

Now Calliope looked at Dora, who met her glance steadily, and then back at Dumbledore. She clutched the mead and took a drink.

"The Order – sir, I'm sorry, but I wasn't quite aware that the Order was still in existence. I mean, it was a renegade group that you organized in the war against You-Know-Who – the first one, anyway – and before that it had come into and out of existence as necessary, that was how I understood it, like a phoenix. It would disappear but always return, hence the name."

"Then why are you surprised to know it is active?"

"I – I guess I shouldn't be, then. But – I do wonder why you're inviting _me_. I mean, my mum was a duelist, but I've…"

"If I may interrupt, Miss Ollivander, your mother's skills mean nothing to us anymore. We want you to work with us for precisely the reasons given by your uncle. You are curious and inquisitive about wandlore, correct?"

"Yes…"

"And yet you do not work in the shop. You are a student of enchanted objects, but not wands specifically. You are difficult to pinpoint as his intellectual heir. What I mean to say is –" Dumbledore cleared his throat and leaned forward, the tips of his fingertips – one set white touched with blue veins and brown age spots, the other black and shriveled – touching gently, "I guess that there are two reasons that Servaas Ollivander was kidnapped. One is for want of services. Another is want of knowledge. Want of services would apply if Voldemort –"

Calliope winced, though no one else did –

"Wanted a new wand for himself or new wands to equip his followers. Why are his thirteen inches of yew undesirable? Because they reacted in a stalemate against Harry Potter's wand of holly. Why's that? Servaas challenges _you_ with that riddle. The next want is want of knowledge: if your uncle could give a reason as to _why_ the wands react the way they did, and how Voldemort could avoid that. Again, _you_ are asked to know something which Servaas himself already knows – knowledge which may have placed him in danger. If Servaas should have disappeared before the Death Eaters could have seized him, or if, God forbid, Servaas becomes unable to answer their questions, who will be the next person with the approximate knowledge and services to suit their needs in England?"

"Considering –" Calliope clutched at her skirts beside her so she wouldn't play with her fingernails – "that both Harry Potter's and He-Who-Must—"

"Say Voldemort, Miss Ollivander. You should get used to it if you're in the Order," Moody suggested.

"That He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's wand," Calliope continued, stubbornly adding in parentheses, "I'm not part of the Order _yet_ – were of Ollivander make, then the next person would be Hector. Hector Gibbs."

"Your cousin," Dumbledore nodded. "On your mother's side. He is, do not worry, already watched by our custodians."

"Custodians?"

"Under the care of our estimable colleague, who arranges for the protection and relocation, if needed, of everyone the Order watches. You can trust us, Miss Calliope. However, the inconspicuous Ollivander child – out of the country for two and a half years now, child of Philomel Ollivander, a rebel against her family –"

"Which could be by itself a cause for suspicion," Moody pointed out.

" – you are in a perfect position to do some work for us."

"Of what sort?" Calliope refused to betray any vulnerability in her voice.

"We would like you to travel overseas – to Switzerland, where the wandmaker Gregorovitch lives and serves much of Europe – find him and tell him about Mr. Ollivander's capture. Ask him if he has any idea as to _why_ Servaas posed a threat, or what Servaas might have known. On behalf of the Order, you will invite him into our protection and security. Your father was a Parisian who traveled often to Morocco. You speak near-fluent French and are familiar with international travel. Gregorovitch respects Servaas and will, I trust, listen to what you have to say. Miss Ollivander, do you have any objections to this?"

Calliope considered a moment. "How long would this trip take me?"

"If you leave tomorrow, Wednesday afternoon, you should reach Gregorovitch's house by Thursday, taking the train from Paris."

"Leaving tomorrow sounds… manageable." Calliope said with reluctance. "I know the Paris station well."

"Your stay in Switzerland should not be long – two days, I would guess – and then upon returning to England, you will return to the Order's members – either Tonks, or Moody, or another agent sent to receive you – and tell what you have found out. If Gregorovitch is with you, we will make arrangements for him. If we think you have done well, and if you wish, we may ask you to gather more information for us."

Calliope's mind split two ways – one ear rang with promised intrigue and pride: "if you have done well" and "gathering information," but another heard the "more" in the second statement, and she had a grim feeling that once one entered the Order, one stayed. She glanced at Dora again. Dora's face had lost its slightly apologetic air, and she held the unflinching, brave look of before – the face of an Auror.

Calliope looked Dumbledore in the eye. "Could my espionage help you find my uncle?"

"It will not alert us to his location, in all likelihood. But you might alert the entire Order as to what Voldemort's intentions are, and perhaps help us prevail against him."

Calliope looked at Alastor Moody's scratchy brown carpet, and paused only a moment before saying, "I'll do it."

An hour later, Calliope and Dora were on the Hogwarts Express heading north. Calliope had sent an owl to the Hollywyck house-elf. Hollywyck was a half-hour's flight by broom – or a short Apparition – from Hogsmeade village.

The two were very quiet, each absorbed in a different book. Dora was starting _'Hairy Snout, Human Heart_' with a very serious countenance. Calliope, on the other hand, was writing, in her brown leather notebook, a carefully delineated list of what she was to do, whom she was to meet, a \nd by what times did each require completion (written backwards, just in case.) When she was done with that, she pulled out _Elemental Magic in Dueling and Defense,_ but it reminded her painfully of her precious lost linden, so she put it back. Unsure what else to do, she sat and thought.

She'd told Dora that she was perfectly fine with her new information, with her mission, and with the Order of the Phoenix in general. There was no use in fretting over what was outside her control, and she did want some power to change things, some ability to help her uncle.

Now, though, Calliope was feeling rather less clement towards her friend. The Order of the Phoenix! Calliope's mother had spoken admiringly of their efforts in the last war – though she had never said much. And Calliope loved her mother, but thought that of course _she_, the fabulous Philomel Ollivander, who didn't change her name upon marriage but passed it on to her children in almost sheer defiance, _would_ approve of an organization that kept to the shadows and took justice into its own hands. And for that matter that's all they _did_. Whenever a Death Eater plot was foiled and without obvious Ministry interference, rumors whipped around that "The Order did it." Calliope had reflected even as a child that a bit of secrecy was no reason to ascribe tall tales to them.

But that was what she'd bought into, wasn't it?

Frowning at herself, at the war, at the Order, she reached into her bag to pull out a small hardcover book bound in green, well-loved. She opened it to the title page and read softly aloud, with a touch of the dramatic, "The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga, A Historie Of No Little Significance, As Faithfully Recounted by Allison Bath."

Over a year ago, Mark had picked this book up, she remembered, and read the title aloud dramatically. He'd then turned the page, just as Calliope did now, to the flyleaf, with the words "Ex Libris" printed beneath a crossed lily and clematis.

That day had been only a couple of weeks after she'd begun to know Mark. It was raining in Boston, so Calliope had invited Mark inside her flat for a moment – a moment and a cup of tea. He had seen the book on her coffee table (Calliope was slowly learning to keep her most conspicuously magical items _out_ of the sitting room.) He'd turned the page and read aloud.

"_The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga, A Historie Of No Little Significance, As Faithfully Recounted by Allison Bath_. _I take it that this is an old book."_

"_Dates back to the 14__th__ century – the words itself, I mean, in their original translation. It's based off actual history –" a swift gulp of tea – "but the veracity is a little debatable. Still my favorite version, though."_

"_14__th__ century? Surprised I never heard of it in Medieval Lit class."_

"_You wouldn't have. It went out of print a long time ago and is considered inferior to the Canterbury Tales."_

"_Oh, everything is. Still fascinating, though. Mind if I borrow it sometime?"_

"_Er…"_

_He'd turned the page. "'Ex libris – Calliope Blithe – _that's_ your middle name? – Ollivander, Ravenclaw Tower.' What's that refer to?"_

"_Er, my dormitory."_

"_Ah. And it says here: 'shamelessly shared with – something crossed out – Dora Tonks.' A friend of yours?"_

"_Yes. One of my closest friends, even back then."_

"_I didn't know you were called 'Callie.'"_

"_Dora only ever used a nickname for herself, so she had a phase of being crazy about nicknames for other people. I'm rarely called anything but Calliope."_

"_Now… further down the page, what's this? 'Bene – dicte' or 'dict?' I can't quite tell…"_

"_Benedicte," Calliope had filled in softly. "She was my sister."_

"_Oh – you – look sad. Did I say something?"_

"_No, it's just…" she had shrugged, "sort of alien to me. She died when I was three years old, you see. I don't remember her personally at all."_

"_Oh." That stunned silence. "I'm – I'm sorry to hear that. Truly."_

_Another shrug. "I'm told she was a wonderful person, but seriously, she's got… I only know what others have told me. That's why it's sort of alien."_

_Mark, adrift without an answer, had glanced down at the book again. "Aha, now it says, 'shamelessly shared with Bartemius Crouch III' – quite a name. Who was he? Unless I've misread the name and it's a she?"_

_Calliope's voice had turned from contemplative to tense. "He was a cousin of mine. A little younger than Benny. They went to Hog – to school together. They were good friends – so I'm told – but when they grew up, he turned – to crime. He performed – or participated in – truly heinous acts. He died in prison years ago." A pause. "When Dora and I first saw that flyleaf and wrote our names in it, we didn't realize who those names were. My sister, her cousin. I felt some connection to Benedicte when I read it – still do, in fact – but Bartemius' name there is like a ghost." She paused, then ventured, "You know?"_

"_Sure," Mark had said a little too casually. "Even Charles Manson must have borrowed books from a friend, once upon a time."_

Calliope had never asked just who Charles Manson was, but Mark hadn't said anything farther, and she knew that nothing more needed to be said. That was a virtue of Mark's: he possessed tact. Most of the time, anyway.

Calliope stared out the window of the Hogwarts Express for a moment, at the never-moving clouds against the lashing shadows of trees, and wondered about Mark, and where he was, and if _he_ had been the one to hit her. Unlikely, but he lived close by, and if he had spotted her wand – unwilling to resume cataloguing the possible fates that could befall a wand in Boston, she opened the book, and lost herself in the iambic pentameter recording the first meeting of Rowena "Wren" Ravenclaw and Sister Helga Hufflepuff.

Hogsmeade was quiet around them in the setting sunlight. Dora's flat was on Sow-whet Street, which extended on the edge of Hogsmeade, facing Hogwarts. It was a small town house, only one story which she described as having "one bedroom, an office, a bath and kitchen, and a miserable excuse for a garden."

"And there's probably a boggart lurking in the closet of the office. I'm real sorry about that. Once you get a wand, though, I thought you and I could face it together." Dora opened the door to the flat. "Welcome home?"

Calliope looked around the place. "It's… cozy," she ventured.

"Absolutely nothing unnecessary," Dora insisted.

"Commendable." Calliope went to the empty mantelpiece and ran a finger along the edge. She gave a little sigh, then turned to Dora with a grin. "Well, at least one of us is good at domestic spells, right?"

"Right." Dora managed a smile.

"It's the least I can do." Calliope put her satchel on the bed and began to take out her photographs. "My luggage from the Keyport should be arriving soon, don't you think? I'll go wait for it at the station and then… well… unpack. I'll make an early night of it."

On the east side of the Accidental Magic Reversal building, with an underground bridge connecting it to Magical Law Enforcement and the Muggle Liaison Office, there was a wing so different in architecture and color that it may have been another building altogether. A marble bust of former Minister of Magic Mnemone Radford stood in plain sight of the door, with the words 'Our Illustrious Founder' engraved at the base.

On the floor in a mosaic of white and black marble there was set a wide circle divided down the center by a black line. A white six-pointed star sat in the center of the circle. The left hemisphere, flooded in black, had a white crescent moon on it, facing away from the star, and the opposite hemisphere, laid in white, had a black crescent in the opposite attitude. Around the ceiling was written the words "_Splendide Mendax_."

These were the unmistakable, unforgettable marks of the Obliviator and Paramnesiac Department.

The room was quiet, for now, the magical synthetic light from the fake skylight falling onto nothing on particular. Pops from outside the door echoed in the chamber. Next minute, about five people entered the chamber, clad in robes that varied from grey to darker grey to almost black. The one person with the almost black cloak carried it over his arm already and was barking orders to the others.

"J.T., I want you to sent an owl down to Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, in case what that Muggle said about the playground set is true. All of you will report back to me in case there's a single Modification you've failed to report, and C.B., write the Society of Potioneers for some more Veritaserum, we're running low – or brew some yourself, I don't care…" he entered the Paramnesiac Department's hallway. A man in darker grey ran up to him and called,

"Mr. T.R. – Mr. T.R., sir – "

The one addressed as T.R. looked about him a minute but did not stop walking until his pursuer shrugged off his grey cloak and called in a loud voice, "T.R., if you please!"

"Oh!" T.R. turned around. "Sorry, L.O., but I didn't notice you." He nodded approvingly at the cloak over L.O.'s arm. "Congratulations again on that promotion. That cloak works well on you."

"Thank you, sir," L.O. said brightly. He continued to speak in a slightly louder voice than usual, "I just wanted to report that I spotted a young Muggle girl – probably no older than nine – watching us from the rim of the fence on the other yard. I pointed my wand at her – she didn't see me, of course – and performed a Child-Safe Memory Charm on her, just before we left. She leaned back from the fence and walked away."

"Nice done," T.R. nodded. "And impressive, using the Child-Safe Charm from such a distance."

"Such a well-made spell is easy to cast well anywhere," L.O. returned. The Child-Safe Memory Charm, they both knew, had been invented by T.R. himself years ago.

"Thank you, my good man. By the way," T.R. began to walk again, with L.O. beside him, "I heard of the disappearance of your uncle recently and wanted to extend my condolences."

"Thank you, sir," L.O. nodded.

"It must be quite painful, to lose yet another close family member in the war against You-Know-Who… you suffered losses in the first war, did you not?"

"Well…"

They had stopped walking. T.R. was facing L.O. and eying him keenly. L.L. found his hands balling into fists, his one nervous habit. "Well, my uncle Hector, and yes, my sister Benedicte disappeared. That was hard for us…"

"What did you say just there?"

"Benedicte, my sister," L.O. repeated, loudly.

"Ah, yes. You never found out what happened to her, did you?"

"No… why?" L.O. looked up, all gracious pleasantries lost. T.R.'s thin, blotchily complexioned face was slightly sad, a touch quizzical.

"No reason. I _do_ hope they find your uncle soon though…"

A call came from farther down the hallway, "L.O., mail call!" L.O. nodded to his superior and wished him a good day as he hurried down to the Messages room, close to his own office.

"Hello, A.T.," he said to the diminutive form wearing a beginner's turtledove-grey robe, organizing letters with her wand hand and shooing away owls with the other. "What's for me?"

"Hold on, they just got lost under another pile of those Ministry pamphlets on the most effective use of Memory Charms on witnessing Muggles, don't they have anyone _better_ to send these to?"

"I don't know. I'm half-tempted to mail these to… I don't know, _The Quibbler._" L.O. took out his wand and levitated the emerald green flyers to a shelf stuffed with the same.

A.T. snickered, her blue eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Good idea. So –" A.T.'s voice became more casual, give or take an invective aimed at a certain persistent owl, "I saw you gushing to Mr. Rowle back there."

"I don't gush, and call him T.R."

"Oh, come on –"

"That's Obliviator policy, it's how it's done!"

"Oh, come on, I see no reason not to just call him – oh, don't look like that, we all know each other's names anyway, Lin—"

"_Amity!_ Please, we're on duty! See, I called you by your given name, happy now?"

Amity Tweak grinned. "That's more like it. Anyway, you sure do spend plenty of time taking to Mr. T.R. now that you're promoted."

"If you mean anything negative by that, you can keep it. I just find T.R. to be a brilliant example and I want to emulate him. That's all."

She only shrugged, handing the black-haired man his letters.

"And it's not like I exclude you guys now." L.O. pointed out.

She nodded. "I know. But it's T.R. that bugs me."

"He's a great Obliviator," Linus insisted stoutly.

"I'm not disputing that," Amity replied, "But he doesn't listen to me." Brushing her wavy blonde hair out of her eyes, she went on, "I've been trying to tell him for a long time about this pattern of attacks I've been researching – people whose memories have been Modified in harmful ways – and he just brushes me off every single time. It's extremely irksome."

"Wait a minute." He held up a letter edged with a green border design. He sighed irritably. "My cousin Tess."

"Ah. You don't seem to like her."

"That's… astute." He opened the letter quickly and read it with an impassive face.

"What's she say?"

"Says that the time is up for her and Hector and I to decide what to do with the shop. Calliope hasn't written back to me yet. I don't know why."

"Does she usually forget to write?"

A beat. "She has forgotten when under a lot of stress – like final exams. Damn it. Well… Hector and Tess and I agree that the shop should be closed."

"Oh." She put down the envelope she was holding. "I'm sorry. That must be a really tough decision."

"It's the only one. Calliope can't exactly overrule us, could she? I just have to write back to Tess. And maybe I'll send another owl to Callie – see you later, Amity"

"You're welcome. … I'm sorry again, L.O."

Linus nodded, but didn't say anything else as he left the mail room.

"Have you written to Linus yet?"

Calliope almost dropped the photograph she'd been holding. "No! Shoot, I forgot. I forgot completely."

"What were you planning on saying?" Dora said carefully. She took the last three photographs out of Calliope's bag and set them on her bed.

"Well, you know, just telling him I'm in England, and that I'm with you, and… that I'm here… what's with that facial expression?"

Dora took a deep breath. "I don't know how to tell you this, but, Callie, I don't think you should write to Linus just yet."

Calliope put down the photograph she was holding. "And why not? He's my brother, I've delayed long enough in answering his question about the shop. I don't want him to worry about me."

"Calliope, right now only three people know that you're in England: myself, Moody, and Albus Dumbledore. If more people know that you're in England now, you could be in…"

"Danger? What would anyone want with me?"

"If your uncle is in danger, then you are, too."

"Well, we're all in danger, aren't we? My uncle and I – you can barely compare us just because we both know a bit about wandmaking."

"Callie, there's a lot I can't tell you because you're not fully inducted into the Order yet…"

Calliope folded her arms across her chest.

"Don't give me that look…"

"What if I wrote to Linus, but didn't say a word about where I was? Can't I do that? Write to my own brother?"

"Yes," said Dora, with a certain note of relief. "I mean – eventually the word that you're here will get out – I mean, we're not keeping you in hiding or anything. But if you just kept quiet on it for the time being, it could make all the difference."

Calliope unfolded her arms and set her hands on her hips. "All right. Do you have a post owl?"

"Not of my own. I mean to get one soon, we can go shopping. The Scops owl I got is only a loan – just for local deliveries."

"I know. I'll go to the post office then."

"Okay." Dora nodded brightly to the photographs on Calliope's nightstand and bed. "We can put some of those photographs on the mantelpiece, if you like. They add life to a place, you know. And you Ollivanders are a really photogenic family."

Calliope tried not to grin. "That's not what photogenic means, Dora. That means we look good in photographs. Papa loves taking pictures of us more than anything else."

Dora picked a photo up from the bed. "Well, here we are at our first playdate. Three years old and scared stiff of each other."

"Really? That's how you remember it?"

"Well, yeah."

"I think we were just shy at first."

"How did our mums meet again?" Dora asked.

"The playground. You and I were playing around, and when you first showed that you could change your hair color I dragged you to my Mum to show you off. Your mum came over then, and – my Mum told me this later – she couldn't believe that your mum was so young. And she added that _your_ mum probably thought mine was so old!"

"I don't believe she ever said _that_…"

"But they recognized each other. Mum's face had been in the papers a lot, and, well…" The taller woman trailed off.

"My mum, the walking talking Bellatrix Lestrange lookalike."

"Yeah. _They_ were the ones who really hit it off, not us."

"Oh no. We never got along."

"Never."

"Now who are these people?" Dora held up another photo. "I don't know them."

"This was taken – must have been this past winter. My friend Andrew has another friend who's also very camera-happy. He took this picture of the bunch of us when we were in a café. That's Andrew there, there's his older sister Tabitha, that snooty-looking one is Scalia, and there's me, and then there's… Mark."

"Mark, eh?"

"Yeah. Scalia would call him the 'token Muggle.'"

"Token?"

"It was just… a put-down. Mark was rarely the only Muggle in the group, if he was with us."

"I'm gathering you don't like Scalia much."

"He's all right if he likes you. He doesn't like Mark."

"You seem to."

Calliope started a bit. "Of course. Mark's very likeable. Scalia's just been around pure-bloods too much of his life."

"Mm-hm. C'mon, let's put this photo of the two of us in the living room."

"You sure? I'm looking in a different direction from you…"

"And my hair looks like a bird's nest. We'll live."

"All right. And then I'm writing to Linus."

"Fine. That's just fine."

About six hours after leaving Boston, Mark Printzen was lingering just outside of the international baggage claim of Edinburgh Airport. He looked around the flourscently lit space, looking for Bridget and trying to loosen up his stiff legs.

He could still feel the wand sitting in his backpack. Just the thought of it made him excited. He started singing softly to himself as he strode up and down the sidewalk, "Could it be? Yes it could! Something's coming, something good – if I can wait. Something's coming, I don't know, what it is, but it is, gonna be great –"

"Nice that you still have that memorized," came a voice from behind him.

Mark jumped and turned. "Bridget!" He straightened up, trying to act like he had not been singing a minute ago. "You caught me by surprise."

She grinned, tossing her pale blonde ponytail over her shoulder. "Who was I to interrupt such a performance? Do you still have that whole song memorized?"

"Probably…" he mumbled.

"Cool. Do you want me to take that bag?"

"Ah, no, thanks, I'd rather hang on to it."

"Okay. So! About today: My show tonight starts at six, and we're planning for dinner at this nice place… you can keep singing, you know. This _is _the Fringe Festival."

"Ah, I'd rather not, thanks."

But when the bus clattered past the Royal Mile, giving the two Americans a glimpse of the crowded Fringe Festival street, Mark couldn't help but hear in his head, '_The air is humming, and something great is coming… it's only just out of reach, down a block, on a beach, maybe tonight…_'

In the long, brick-walled basement of a certain house in northern England, Servaas Ollivander lay with a spell-weakened throat, in fetal position on a thin mattress. He had a small water closet to himself and a bed, and a window that leaked in unwelcome sunlight to the room.

He still had not seen his custodian's face, but knew that he was 1. Male. 2. Younger than Mr. Ollivander himself, although as Servaas had been a schoolmate of Aberforth and Albus Dumbledore, this said very little. 3. Held a position of power at the Ministry of Magic 4. He was the younger brother of another Death Eater, who was married.

The only way to identify the man, as both the Dark Lord and his own brother had called him, was to say 'Turpentine.' It was an odd nickname, considering that Mr. Turpentine was neither smelly nor liquid, but it made thinking about the man much less fearsome, when he could be at least mocked a little.

As mentioned before, Servaas' feet were bound. He had been given a potion with his soup dinner, which spoiled the taste, and weakened his strength. But he had enough strength to take out the battered notebook from the unfound pocket in his vest, and the pen that was with it, and write in it,

"_My name is Servaas Ollivander, and this is the first day of my captivity._"


	6. The Carved Crucible

The Carved Crucible

AN: Disclaimers still apply, especially as my original characters are entirely mine.

I feel compelled to add – if you have something to say, feel free to leave a review! And thanks.

The Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade with a wake of smoke. Calliope stepped off the train, satchel and book at the ready. She had (appropriately) reached the line in Lady Wren and Sister Helga's tale when they start upon the road that would one day become the route of the Hogwarts Express.

She looked in her hand at the key to Dora's Hogsmeade flat. A string tied her address to the key, and Calliope strode down the main street of Hogsmeade, keeping an eye out for Sow-Whet Street.

The sun broke through the cloud cover to bring Hogwarts Castle out of the dreary landscape. Calliope stopped on the street to look at it. She squinted one eye and raised her hand to point out Ravenclaw Tower. Then she dropped her hand in case anyone was watching, which prompted her notice that the street was surprisingly empty for a summer afternoon. The sky was overcast and the breeze blew chillier than summer's usual prescription. A poster advertising Bellatrix Lestrange's face was plastered over a poster promoting some candidate for Hogsmeade mayor. (As though her face could have been forgotten even in twelve years.)

Calliope found Sow-Whet Street and hurried down it. Her and Dora's new place was a very small cottage with a bit of a garden and fence attached, closer to the castle than most of the village.

Inside, the place was furnished with cardboard boxes and a few food items placed haphazardly about the kitchen. It had no sense of belonging to Dora, or indeed to anyone. Calliope only stayed long enough to pull out the Cleansweep Five that she knew would be tucked in the boots and umbrella closet, and to lock the door again behind her.

And the end of Sow-Whet Street, where the cobblestones sank and curled into grass and only a lamppost remained, Calliope sprang onto the broom, lightly swung her bag over one shoulder, and took off, calculating that she could easily reach Hollywyck by sunset without exhausting the broom. She flew close to the canopy of the Forest, but not close enough to scare flocks of birds in the trees, or so close that a thestral rising out of the woods would scare her off her broomstick.

It was from Hollywyck's front porch, she remembered, that she had first seen a thestral, two days after her mother's death. Calliope had just completed her last year at Hogwarts, and had long since known that thestrals pulled the Hogwarts carriages, but she had still been unreasonably scared of them, shrinking behind the door. That was six years ago; since then; her father had moved out the British Isles and to Morocco. Neither Calliope nor Linus had seen their father face-to-face in a year.

Calliope recalled all this with a sigh, bending lower over the broomstick so it would accelerate. From a distance she might have been a dark bird flapping coldly against the sky.

The sun was approaching the horizon, slowly, as it always did in Scotland. At Hollywyck, Scurry knew to sweep the kitchen, light the fire, put on some tea, dust Calliope's bedroom, and unlock the back door fifteen minutes before Calliope herself walked in through that very door.

"Ah! Miss Calliope! We has a feeling it be Mistress Calliope, and here she is sure as life! Welcome-welcome!" Scurry was curtsying, and managed to put the Cleansweep Five away at the same time, chatting delightedly in her squeaky voice. "You'll find your old bedroom is just the same as ever it was, Miss Calliope dear, and we can get a hot bath running for as soon as you like. Say the word!"

Calliope smiled and bade the elf relax. Scurry still insisted on pulling Calliope to the table and would not rest until the Mistress was _seated_, and had a cup of hot tea before her, and some shortbread biscuits for good measure, because Scurry is a Hollywyck house-elf and the Hollywyck house-elves _never_ do halves.

Calliope blew the steam off her tea. Scurry surveyed her affectionately with large brown eyes, (no doubt noting where stitches and mending were required) and Calliope did the same. Scurry wore a ratty towel that had once been decorated with yellow duckies, drawn around her like a sari. Her ears, being unusually long and a bit of an inconvenience, had been hidden under a piece of red curtain, which wrapped and was tied in a knot at the top of her head.

"So, Scurry," Calliope took a biscuit, "How has Hollywyck been?"

"Rather quiet, as usual," Scurry swept the floor at her feet with one toe, "But we be getting a visitor recently. Strange visitor, too."

"A visitor? Whom?" Calliope leaned forward. "Or who, whichever."

"Another house-elf. Name of Dobby."

Calliope nodded. "What family is… it?"

"He use to belong to the Malfoys, but…" Scurry leaned forward, twisting her mouth guiltily, "He is a _free elf_, Mistress!"

Calliope's jaw dropped a little. "A free elf? From the Malfoys?"

"Well, he works at Hogwarts now, Miss, but he is paid, by Albus Dumbledore himself! He says his loyalty is due only to those who _earn_ it! He, he _boasts_ of it! He says his loyalty is to Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Ron Weasley, and – ah, but he says the last is secret. He's not even told _us_!"

Calliope, raising an eyebrow, sensed that Scurry was quite taken with Dobby, much as she disapproved.

"And he brings a friend, too, Miss, name of Winky. And here's a gasper – Winky once belonged to the Crouch family!"

Calliope's tea almost wasn't swallowed. "As in Bartemius Crouch?"

"No other! She came with a mixed opinion of the Ollivanders, turning up her potato nose at us, but we soon felt for the poor thing, forced to freedom for some trifle… she persisted she deserved it, Dobby persisted she did not, but the fact remains the elfkin took it _awful_ hard. Dobby is thinking a grand house like Hollywyck might ease her homesickness after work with those hundred other elves in Hogwarts. So sometimes – not often, but occasionally, Dobby persuades us to…" a drawing of breath, "let her clean."

Calliope almost laughed, but stopped herself.

"That's fine." She leaned back. "If it's therapeutic for her, I see no harm. And I'm sure Linus would agree," she added quickly. "How long have these visitors been coming?"

"For a little over a year now. Dobby is first bringing Winky down a month after the Triwizard Tourney is over, and now we sees him, if not Winky, at least once every two months. He is quite merry company, though he speaks so – so _giddily_ of freedom! As if he were drowned in butterbeer! Scurry has always had a loose tongue, Miss, but Dobby makes us glad there's not humans around to hear!"

"A free elf," Calliope mused, "In Dumbledore's pay. Strange. But, Scurry, you got my owl, right?"

"Yes, Mistress! And we prepared your room all smart and got Mistress Philomel's wands too. Lady Philomel's wands in their cedar box, do you want to see them?"

"Yes, Scurry, I would, at once."

Scurry leapt up eagerly and took Calliope's now empty teacup to the sink. "Is Miss sure she is not hungry for another biscuit or –"

"No, Scurry."

Scurry nodded, and without ado proceeded into the hallway to the parlor, to the stairway that led upstairs. Calliope knew there was a stairway from the kitchen as well, but also knew it was no good to argue; Scurry insisted that the Masters used the Master's stairwell.

As the two reached the landing, Calliope paused at the large hexagonal window with its hand-sized diamond panes to look at the view. The dense forest around Hollywyck was beginning to tinge itself in reds, at least where the most autumn-eager trees grew. Calliope put her hand on the glass to look through and down a little. Scurry, already halfway up the next flight, stopped to look at her, but didn't speak.

Through the myrtle leaves that partially blocked the window, Calliope could just see the corner of the winding, disseminate Ollivander family graveyard.

"I'll visit Mother's before I go," she murmured half to herself, "And Benedicte's, too." She had never understood Dora's referral to her paternal grandparents' burial mounds as "Grammy" and "Pop-pop," as if they were the real people. It was an affectation. Graves were graves.

"Scurry noticed that the lilacs and sunflowers in the flower garden are blooming very fine, with maybe some extras for cutting." The elf was at Calliope's feet, looking up.

Calliope's mouth turned down a minute. "I don't like lilacs," she said, "maybe sunflowers. But Scurry, let's go to the wands."

Up the stairs they went and down a narrow hallway. Calliope glanced into her room as they passed it – a pale blue room with flowers painted on the cupboards and desk and walls, still the room of her childhood. Into the room at the far end of the hall did Scurry turn, and with a flick of one long, callused finger, opened the door. Calliope, with some reverence, stepped into her parents' bedroom.

As she crossed the threshold, she automatically turned her head to look at the painting above the fireplace. The curtains were closed now; they always were. But Calliope glanced there all the same.

The window was shuttered, but the shutters were not drawn, so that enough light from the sunlight's last quarter-hour fell in to give the room a grayish cast with a red tinge, reflecting the mahogany of the small table in its center. The table bore a simply but elegantly made – and enchanted – box made of cedar wood. Scurry placed the key to it in Calliope's outstretched hand. Calliope opened it with a small click and it creaked to reveal six wands and one empty wand-shaped slot impressed into red velvet. (Calliope knew where the seventh wand was – tucked in Linus' briefcase to help with his work.)

She ran her left index finger over each, reciting each wood like a dead saint's name. Scurry, quiet as a moth, left the room.

"Birch. Palmetto. Redwood. Dogwood. Plum. Lombardy."

Calliope began to speak to the wands.

"You served my mother. She won you all in fair fights, and in her will left them to her children. Well, I have need of one of you now. Which will it be?" She took a deep breath. "It was a moment of carelessness – shock, hurry, carelessness – that made me lose my own wand. Believe me, no one regrets it more than I do. The only comfort I have is that I sent a friend to collect my wand and bring it back. If it's at all possible, he'll bring it back to me."

Somewhere, far away, though not as far as she thought, Mark Printzen sneezed.

"But I promise you that I'll treat you with utmost respect – not the least because you belonged to my mother. Now, I'm warning you here." A pause. "You're going to have to fight. You didn't ask for it, well, neither did I, but evidently we're needed. I'll do all that I can to help and try to return to a peaceful living as soon as I can. No heroism for me – I'm not a Gryffindor like Mum. But I'll fight hard, and I'll use you well. We've got to fight, so which will it be?"

No sound. The wands made no answer.

Tentatively, Calliope raised her left hand (remembering uneasily that the wands' previous owners had likely been right-handed) and, eyes half-closed, touched each wand gently with her fingers.

Secretly she'd hoped for a spark with the birch wand, so like in color to her own linden, and kept her fingers on it for a moment longer than the palmetto, or redwood, or dogwood received. All the wands were listless.

However, the plum wand warmed to her touch immediately and she involuntarily grasped it. Smiling, she opened her eyes and flicked the wand at an empty pitcher on her parents' washstand. With ease, the pitcher lifted itself up and levitated to the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Calliope looked at the plum wand and then, just for thoroughness, ran a finger over the edge of the Lombardy wand. No thrill, no spark.

Calliope closed the cedar box, now with two empty slots, and took her new wand into the sunlight to study it critically. Plum was not as light nor as fine-grained as linden, but the wood was firm, a good length, and seemed to be Ollivander make. So far, so good. Calliope rolled the wand between her hands and whispered, "_Coerum Montay_." The wand thrilled and from its tip shot a flurry of green sparks that formed into a small green dragon. The sparkling apparition curled like a cat and gave a short roar like the low note of a cello before evaporating. Calliope was satisfied.

She walked to her own room across the hall and said, "Scurry, I've found a wand. You can put the others away now."

"Yes, Mistress!"

"Put out some clothes for me, I still have a few in this room, and remind me that I'll need to visit Gladrags – next week, perhaps – "

"Yes, Mistress."

Calliope sat on the bed, and carefully put her plum wand on the nightstand. Tomorrow there'd be time to worry what its strengths were, whether defensive or deceptive, Charms or Transfiguration. Today, though, today – the sun was setting, and it felt like ages since she had woken up in her apartment in Boston, and received Uncle Servaas' owl. And the conversation with Dora, and then with Mark…

A few minutes later, Scurry, with a knowing little smile, carefully took off the sleeping Calliope's shoes and, with her own magic, moved her onto the bed properly and under the covers, for a long, undisturbed sleep.

_This is the second day of my captivity. I am resolved to hide this notebook somewhere different every time, so that Turpentine does not find it. He has come down to the basement twice; he has never spoken to or even looked at me, not even when bringing me food. The food is decent, breakfast and dinner. Turpentine is a man on the tall side, and dresses well. I would place his status at upper-middle class. He spends much time in the evenings in his cellar. He has several mirrors down here and I think he is trying to enchant them. However, since I arrived he has set up a set of table legs made of spindly metal, like a garden table. But the top of it, a large disc of what looks like marble, sits by itself against the wall. Other than that, there are only assorted boxes and a few books in this cellar, that and my pallet and W.C. _

_Third day of my captivity. Now late evening. He came by earlier. He has set the slab onto the legs; it makes me think of a sundial now. He took out his wand – a light colored wand, couldn't tell the wood – and levitated the slab in midair, carving a shape on it. I pretended to be asleep, but I could watch – he used first a spell to lay perfectly straight, angled red lines over the stone, and then carefully chiseled a groove with his wand. He made two triangles, overlapping. It looks like the Seal of Solomon, but there was something off – an imbalance that I'm sure is deliberate. He looked exhausted. He'll probably finish tomorrow. I really strained my eyes looking at that slab. Can't write anymore._

_Fourth morning. Spine sore. I wonder if I shall ever see Hollywyck again. Turpentine said something else, he wished me a hearty goodbye saying I should have fun exploring my memories. I'm afraid. I think I know what he plans for me now. _

_Holly's growing across the door, linden oak grow merry in time, and cedar makes the ceiling and floor, myrtle means a true love of mine._

_Eyes still hurt. But I __have__ to write this down. It helps me remember. Better times. Friends. Smiles. Christmas trees._

_Hazel berries are bitter with truth, linden oak grow merry in time, but willow gives nepenthe and ruth, myrtle means a true love of mine._

Mark Printzen's third day in the United Kingdom was his first day in London. He was feeling quite giddy. The first three days of his journey were spent at the Edinburgh Fringe Theater Festival, where he witnessed the opening of his friend Bridget's play and watched four shows in one day, when not going on ghost tours of the city and climbing Arthur's Seat. Edinburgh had enchanted him with its history and beauty, and the friendly middle-aged lady who ran the inn said "theäs oon" just like in that Thomas Hardy poem.

But London, _that_ was what Mark had been waiting for.

(It should be noted that among the things Mark kept with him at all times in his small backpack was the wand that he had found in Boston. He checked it every evening to be sure it was in one piece, but never took it out otherwise.)

What a lark, _what_ a plunge! Mark found himself repeating that often. The air wasn't as clean as he'd imagined, and the sunlight was rather like the sunlight back home in Boston, but it was _London_. He took the first tour of monuments and landmarks that was recommended, and, having not brought a camera, wrote down everything he observed. Thus his notebook, usually devoted to spur of the moment observations, cursory poetry, or phone numbers, found itself tormented with use until, to his delight, he filled it. This gave him an excuse to buy a new notebook embossed with William Shakespeare's signature at the Globe Theater, in which the first note was, circled and underlined, "_See Peter Pan statue!_"

For lunch, he feasted on fish and chips (but abstained from English beer) and spent a whole hour strolling around Kensington Gardens (with the Peter Pan statue given due reverence.) Then, because he couldn't get tickets for any West End musical, he decided to explore.

He sat on a park bench in Kensington Gardens. When he was certain no one was watching, he took out the wand. Holding it loosely in his hand, he said, "Where should I go now? Guide me."

The wand did nothing. However, a breeze came up. Mark looked in the direction of the breeze, and over his right shoulder he saw a huddle of people standing together – all four wearing long cloaks, and pointed hats.

Mark looked around. No one else in the park was wearing cloaks, and certainly not in colors such as olive green and vivid sapphire. But no one else in the park was staring, or had even noticed.

Mark put the wand away, and watched them. After a while, they broke up, and one person – a very short man in a purple cloak – walked past.

Mark got up and followed him. Followed him down several streets –Blackfriars, Crookwalk, Kickshaw – until he entered a little square, lined with shops. He stopped to check his watch - (one-thirty-five on the dot) and when he looked up again, the man had vanished.

"Hm," said Mark.

He looked around the square. The intersection of Kickshaw and Tortile was a metropolitan square, only distinguished by a rather generic and faded statue of a man in 1700's garb, whose back was currently to Mark, facing into the wall between a record shop and a large bookstore. Mark looked around to see if there was an inn anywhere in sight. He saw a hamburger joint on his right, to his left, a metro station and other small shops, with a dentist's office rounding it out.

The tourist sighed. A dead end. But at least there was a bookstore.

He made for the bookstore, always glancing around – and then saw something that made him stop. Then he stepped closer, to be sure of what he was seeing.

Sláine Doran was not being paid enough for this.

No doubt many adolescents across England would adore being paid to _loiter_, but not Sláine. It was not fun to be one of the undercover security guard for the Leaky Cauldron. She'd been equipped with a pair of sunglasses that let her see what magical items a person was carrying as they entered the Leaky – and supposedly they would give a special look to anything with Dark Magic.

Sláine thought the whole exercise was counterintuitive. Any wizard at all, even an eager child who hadn't bought a wand yet, would have magic all over them. Magic wove together a wizard's clothes, kept a witch's purse tightly stitched together. The contents of any wizard's purse would be rife with magic, from the money to the chewing gum. Looking through the sunglasses, you could even see a glimmer of magic on people's skin, blocking from sunburn, giving them smoother skin, redder lips, thicker hair. And who would attempt bringing a piece of Dark Magic with them _into_ the Leaky Cauldron? Sláine wondered uneasily if the sunglasses could see through an enchanted cloak and into the Dark Mark beneath… and would she even _want_ to see that?

She scanned the square again, and something caught her eye. It was not an unusual proliferation of magic, as she had been half-waiting for all day; quite the opposite, in fact.

"He – he's got a _wand…_" she leaned forward, trying to still be inconspicuous. " But... but…"

'_But nothing else_,' her mind answered. The clothes of the young man – surely not an undiscovered Muggle-born wizard – were utterly magic-free, he didn't seem to even notice the Leaky Cauldron, and the wand he carried sat in a _backpack_, of all things – not in a pocket, where it could be quickly grasped just-in-case. There was nothing else in the backpack that had the faintest bit of magic to it.

Sláine was starting to get nervous. She fumbled in her pocket for the small aluminum can with a cheery yellow and green '_Weasley's Wicked Walky-Talkies_' printed on it. She spoke into it, saying, "Beynon? Beynon Gladstone? Do you hear me?"

A voice from inside the can answered her, "The correct term is, 'Red Coat, Do you copy,' Green Shoot, not, 'Do you hear me.' And yes, I copy."

She could see Beynon from the other side of the square. His large, bulky figure leaned against a wall. The fake leather jacket he'd borrowed to blend in with the Muggles suited him almost _too_ well.

"There's a man in Muggle clothes – wearing a red jacket – lolling around the statue, do you see him?"

"The one with the – the – what's that in his backpack?"

"I think it's a wand."

"Why doesn't he have anything else?"

"I don't know, that's why I called you…" she shifted the 'Walky-Talky' to hide it better behind her book. "Does he look like he noticed the Leaky Cauldron yet?"

"No. Seems utterly aimless."

"Why would he have a… I guess he could be a wizard who's trying to be a Muggle?"

"And why would he be trying to do that?"

"I don't know…"

"What if he's a wizard in disguise?"

"Then why is his wand so deeply hidden?"

"He's only waiting to bring it out for something big."

"…What?"

"Waiting for a signal. Waiting to launch the surprise…"

"Come on, Beynon…"

"Well, why don't you suggest a reason, eh? _Eh?_"

"I… I guess that _could_ be it…"

"Any other ideas? I'm going to start to make a move…"

"He could be – "

"What?"

"He could be under the Imperius Curse. Maybe? And he was told to dress up as a Muggle? But… um… Do you copy?"

"I copy. I'm going to – why is he heading towards the Leaky? Does he see it?"

Mark slowly approached the wood planks that stood between the stores, and pushed them lightly, to see if there was a loose board that she may have walked through – no go. However, crudely carved into one plank, at an adult's eye level, was an arrow. Mark looked down – at the level of his hand, there was a carving of what looked like a crucible, or a cauldron, weathered and faded.

Mark reached out to press the crucible, but yanked his hand back at the last second. His eyes quickly scanned the square to see if anyone was watching – no one had even paused. Only the statue that glared between the stores could see what he did now. Carefully, deliberately, Mark reached into his bag and pulled out the white wand. Taking a deep breath, he gently lay the tip of the wand against the carved crucible and said,

"Open sesame."

Nothing happened.

In the Cauldron, trouble was brewing. It began when Dolores Umbridge, never a well-liked patron to begin with, approached the barman, gripping her handbag so tightly that her knuckles were white.

"Excuse me, sir! You, sir!" She approached the end of the bar opposite to where Tom was, evidently unwilling to cross paths with a man asleep at the counter. She had snapped her fingers three times before Tom had arrived at acceptable proximity.

"You may call me Tom, marm."

Umbridge evidently didn't care. Her face was contorted in clear disgust as she pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Have you not noticed _what_ is outside that door?"

"No, marm, I had not."

"There is – a _Muggle_ outside. He is _trying to get in_."

Tom's brows furrowed and he looked around the pub for an unaccompanied, Muggle-born young wizard or witch whose eager rush into the Leaky Cauldron had left their parent or guardian stranded outside. It had happened before. But there was no unaccompanied minor. He followed Umbridge, quavering with indignation, to the door. It was then that he noticed that other patrons near the door had moved away, or at least were looking askance at the checked window dressings. He pushed aside the curtain with a skinny finger. And there was, in fact, a Muggle at the door.

"He says something," he murmured, "and stares at the door, but doesn't push it open. He" – he leaned closer to the window, squinting, "He's got a wand, but he doesn't use it, he seems to be – prodding the wand against the door?"

"A menace," Umbridge was heard to snarl, "a _threat_."

"Looks harmless," He said to the assembled crowd. Then Tabitha Crockford came forward, in her timorous manner, and, putting a wizened hand on Tom's shoulder, said, "could it be, Mr. Tom, that he's a deranged wizard? Made mad by the Imperius Curse? How can we let that go by?"

"Ah!" Tom said with relief. "Don't worry about it no more, see, here's Beynon come to talk to him, yes, our Beynon. No need to fret, folks! Everything's going to be just fine!"

"Hey, sir."

"What?"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Ah… what… what does it look like I'm doing?"

"Where did you get that wand?"

"This? This belongs to a friend."

"It's not really yours?"

"Hey, what business is it of yours?"

"Do you even know what you're trying to do?"

"No, but I think you're trying to be very rude and belligerent."

"Excuse _me_, Yank."

"What was that?"

"What are you, a Muggle and a Yank, doing here in this square?"

"What did you call me? A Yank and a _what_?"

"Ah, Merlin. You don't even know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"Never mind." The tall, heavyset man half-turned away from Mark and lifted what looked suspiciously like an aluminum can to his mouth. "Red Coat to Green Shoot, do you copy?"

Slaine answered, "I see you from the other side of the square. _Yes_, I copy."

Mark leaned over a bit. "Why are you holding a soda can to your ear? Is there a string attached somewhere?"

"How do you call the Muggle Liaison Office?"

Slaine slumped. "… Hell, I dunno."

"Bloody hell. All I know how to call's the Auror Division and M.L.E. …"

"Guy's a Muggle?"

"Yeah…"

"_Enough of this_," hissed a voice inside the Leaky Cauldron.

Suddenly,on either side of Mark there was a zing in the air, a rush of wind, and suddenly two figures clad in black with gold stripes appeared beside him.

"What in the –"

Mark started, his heart racing. "Sirs –" he began, but could not finish before the two men grabbed his arms, and one, beckoning with a wand of his own, opened the fence to reveal –

A densely crowded pub, full of oddly dressed people who stared at Mark with stark curiosity as the two men dragged him past.

The men took Mark upstairs and into a little sitting room that was not empty when they entered. Mark's adrenalin did not let up even when he was thrown into a chair in an upstairs lounge. Indeed, his first instinct was to stand right back up and inspect the painting over the fireplace before he became aware that a wand was pointed at his temple.

"Sit down," said a voice used to command.

Mark sat down. He began to wonder what the black and gold robes meant, and a prickle of fear stung his heart – but he wouldn't dare show it yet.

"What is your name?" said the man who had spoken.

"P-Printzen, sir." Years of Catholic schooling came to the surface in reflexive politeness.

"Just Printzen?"

"Mark Printzen, sir."

Too late Mark recalled the three taboos of dallying with magic: 1. Don't touch unfamiliar food, 2. Call them "the Fair Folk", and 3. Don't ever reveal your real name.

A bit too late.

The other person in the room stood up. Maybe it was the layers of pink that swathed her bloated figure, maybe it was the pale, compressed anger of her face, but Mark had an immediate impression that this was not a healthy woman.

"Mark Printzen, under the authority of Dolores Umbridge, you are under arrest by the Ministry of Magic."

A/N: Well, that's it for this chapter. Note: I will not be updating next week, saying it right now, because I will be very busy. But don't worry – from here, the plot kicks into gear, so your patience will be rewarded. Thank you for reading!


	7. Experiments

Experiments

Calliope and Linus' father, Modeste Samara, had been born in Rabat, Morocco, to a Moroccan father and a mother from North India. Modeste had immigrated to Paris while rather young, where he had met Philomel Ollivander. He had not minded giving his children a , but he insisted that his children know the places he had known growing up. As a result, Calliope was as comfortable traveling as staying still, and could speak excellent French, albeit with a slight tang of the Maghreb. She had never been to Switzerland before, and knew this was no holiday, but was at perfect ease in the Keyport, where she took the Portkey to the Continent. She found the trains to the countryside with ease and enjoyed the mountain scenery very well.

Gregorovitch's shop was embedded in the quiet of a small Swiss hamlet in the Alps. It was as unlike the cramped and vertically disposed shop in Diagon Alley as possible: a wide, low-eaved building bordered by firs, with an elaborately carved sign over the door advertising the wand shop. Callliope paused before pulling the doorbell, straightening her small black hat and her raincoat. She swallowed and rehearsed saying, under her breath, "_Bonjour, M'sieur, je suis la petit-nièce du Servaas Ollivander, le faiseur anglais des baguettes_." Then she smiled. The fact that the French words for 'loaf of bread' and 'wand' were the same would never cease to amuse her. She nodded and pulled the door-pull.

There was a silence, then the patter of footsteps approached the door. It swung open to reveal a wide-bellied, white bearded man still halfway down the hall, his wand out and a broad smile on his face. "_Wilkommen_," he called. "_Bienvenue!_"

"_Bonjour, Monsieur_," Calliope replied. He was at the door and shook her hand heartily. They conversed in French.

"Welcome, Miss, how can I be of assistance? Do you need a repair job? Perhaps a consultation? Is there a child I should be expecting?" he looked past her at the long walk as though the buoyant student to-be-was already approaching.

Calliope shook her head. "No, sir, no, I've not come on a matter of business, I have some news to deliver. May I come inside?"

"Certainly, please come in." Gregorovitch beckoned her to come inside. "Durmstrang has been in session all summer, so I am not busy. And a local school for Muggle-borns has also opened its semester – I can relax at last!" He led Calliope, chatting amiably, to a parlor, with dainty chocolates arranged on a platter on the table between two well-stuffed armchairs. The room was well-furnished with certificates, awards in several different languages, recognitions of merit and craftsmanship etc. etc. Servaas had a similar display of awards, but all of them had, upon reception, been retired into a box in the attic.

Calliope sat down, put down her hat, discarded her raincoat, and accepted a chocolate dipped slice of ginger cake. She demurely parried and answered his inquiries as to her journey, her comfort, the weather in England and how much more pleasant was the weather in Switzerland. Gregorovitch then tried to inquire after her family, with less success, as he was a little out of touch.

"How is your mother, the famed Philomel Ollivander? I last heard of her in her battle with ah, Lugh Prince, a fierce duel, I've heard –"

That duel had been fought more than forty years prior.

"She died a few years ago, M'sieur, from the lingering effects of that duel."

"Oh! I am – I am sorry to hear that. But she is survived by three children, right?"

Benedicte Ollivander had died some fifteen years before her mother did.

"Only two survived her, M'sieur."

"Helas! What a tragic family! Er – what of your great-uncle, the wandmaker?"

This was the moment. "M'sieur Gregorovitch," Calliope said carefully, "that is what I came to tell you. My uncle has been kidnapped, by – " then she faltered. Should she say "Le Seigneir D'Ombre," which sounded idiotic, or "Vous-Savez-Quoi," which she was not sure was correct? Or should she try to figure out how to say "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" She paused.

"Mademoiselle?" the plump host asked.

"Oh!" Calliope started. "Pardon." Suddenly the obvious solution had occurred to her: "He was kidnapped," she repeated, "by Flight-From-Death." 'Flight,' or _Vol_, 'From' came from _De_, and 'Death,' _Mort_. Though it was shielded in French, she shuddered. A string of pride vibrated in her heart – for the first time in her life, she had said the name. Maybe she was catching on to the Order of the Phoenix.

Gregorovitch, while she was reflecting on this, had repeated "flight from death?" as if unsure of what he had heard. Comprehending, he jumped back. First he gave an exclamation in German, which sounded disbelieving, then "_Mademoiselle! _Your uncle – kidnapped by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" (So _that_ was the French way to say it.) "I am – astonished! What else was taken? I am sorry to hear the news."

"Nothing," Calliope answered with deliberation. "Nothing else was taken. Only my uncle."

"Oh." Gregorovitch leaned back in his seat. "A shame. A terrible shame. Servaas Ollivander knew much about his craft… how was he taken? At night? On the street? Was there a struggle?"

"There was no struggle," Calliope said, thinking, '_He's wondering what he should be on his guard against, the scared man_.' "He was taken at night from his shop."

Gregorovitch was silent for a bit. "This is grave. I am glad you have told me this." He took a chocolate-dipped slice of cake.

"M'sieur, if you are afraid for your own safety," Calliope offered, "Dumbledore, you know, the head of the Order of the Phoenix – do you know it?"

"No, but I know Dumbledore. What about it?"

"He is willing to offer you protection. You can come into hiding, we will take you under our wing…"

"Into hiding? Now, now, that's a bit of a demand!" Gregorovitch's uneasiness seemed to have vanished as he finished the cake. "What of my shop? My business? Mademoiselle, troubled as I am by the capture of my colleague, surely it is not cause to put my life on hiatus! Do not think, Mademoiselle Ollivander, that I am not a competent wizard!" Gregorovitch got up and stood by a wall of certificates, rubbing his hands.

Calliope was on the edge of her chair, hands gripping the armrests. "You mean to tell me, sir, that you are not afraid?"

"True, I am out of practice, but a little hired security should suffice – if I really need it." He gave a soft, strange chuckle. "Indeed, Dumbledore should be more afraid than I…"

"Why?" Calliope urged, echoing her Moroccan grandfather, "_Yallah_, what has Dumbledore got to fear?"

Gregorovitch, instead of answering outright, first gave a grin. "I didn't realize the Ollivanders were a Maghreb family." He then turned away, leaving Calliope incensed at herself for her lapse. Gregorovitch turned back with a piece of parchment in his hand and a freshly inked quill. He set the parchment on the table; Calliope bent over to see. He scratched on the parchment first a triangle, then a circle within the triangle, and a line bisecting both of them, vertical to Gregorovitch's point of view. He pushed it to Calliope. "Mademoiselle Ollivander," he said in a professional voice "You are learned in the study of wands, correct?"

"Yes." Calliope studied the symbol with a furrowed brow. After a pause she said, "I do not know this symbol."

"Ah!" Gregorovitch leaned back. "You see? If you, a woman as learned in wands as I expect can be found in England, do not know this, then, why should anyone else?" He took the tray of chocolates away and began to talk to himself in German. He sounded like he was making a to-do list.

Calliope felt annoyed and insulted, but not so annoyed as to stop paying him attention. At once in the train of babble she heard him say, "Grindelwald."

She sat up again. "What about Grindelwald, Monsieur?"

He did not answer her. But, she remembered her mother's advice to relax her mind's ear. When she did, she heard "shtick," which she knew was German for "wand," followed directly by the word "Alder." Now that sounded familiar…Was he talking about the Elder Wand?

She took the parchment and put it into her pocket.

Gregorovitch turned on his heel and said, all brusqueness and business, "I thank you kindly, Mademoiselle, for your trouble in coming out here, and your care to warn me. It is not without deliberation that I refuse your offer – for now. I will let you know if I see fit to change my mind, or if I find anything that may… interest you. _Bon journée._"

Calliope continued to try and convince Monsieur Gregorovitch that he was in much more danger than he seemed, but he appeared immovable and gave her his word that he would implement extra security measures. She took her leave, and when out of the house, Apparated to Geneva, and took the late evening Portkey to Bristol, all the while quietly seething with the frustration of a wasted day and a stubborn, foolish man. As she stood under a street lamp, holding out her left arm to summon the Knight Bus, her right hand closed in her pocket around the piece of paper salvaged from Gregorovitch's. However mysterious the triangle, circle, and line were, she was certain she could decipher it before long. Books had never been her enemies, they would help her now.

With a screech the Knight Bus pulled up. "Name, please," demanded the new conductor, a man selected as much for intimidation, Calliope thought, as conducting. "You must provide evidence of your identity. New regulations. Chop-chop 'ere, we haven't got all night." Calliope sighed and pulled out her passport.

Servaas Ollivander awoke from his nap to find that the shaft of moonlight was piercing his small cellar. It was a calming light, and he was starting to reach for his notebook and pen when he realized he was not alone there. The moonlight reflected brightly off of a basin filled with water. Bent over the basin was Turpentine, his warden.

He saw Servaas moving out of the corner of his eye and looked up. Servaas clenched his jaw, thinking that Turpentine would tie his ankles and wrists again, or perform some other kind of torture, but Turpentine did nothing of the sort. He simply said, "Would you like to have a look at what I'm doing?"

Servaas didn't move.

"Oh, come on, you don't think I'm going to torture you, do you? You might be interested in what I'm doing."

Servaas sat up, realizing that his wrists and ankles were free. He stood up shakily, feeling weak and hungry, and walked over to the table bathed in moonlight. He saw that the basin was half-filled with a transparent potion (possibly cut with water,) and that a large mirror lay at the base of it, soaking in the potion, which smelled slightly bitter. The moon was gibbous in the sky, and silvery-white.

"You see, Mr. Ollivander," the seated man began, "I enjoy experiments – pushing the boundaries of knowledge farther and farther out. And I tell few about my experiments, but I like an audience. Sit, sit."

Servaas, feeling that the situation was not a little absurd, sat.

"See, here, I'm attempting to enchant a mirror. Have you heard of the Mirror of Erised?"

"I had the good luck to study it closely some years ago."

"So have I. A marvelous experience."

"Are you trying to re-create it? Or something like it?"

"Something like it, yes. And I'm beginning my experiment now because, well, you know the full moon helps a plain mirror reflect magic, leaving it unenchantable. A gibbous moon means some magic will soak into the glass and frame. And the more the moon wanes, the more I'll be able to work on it." He took a drink of some hot tea that was sitting nearby.

"Fascinating." Servaas' eyes were wide, and did not leave the cup of tea on the table.

Turpentine followed his gaze. "Ah! Well… ahem. Anyway. I've bought a book recently that covers the enchantment of mirrors like the Mirror of Erised in some depth. I'm about halfway through it now." He saw that his captive was still staring at the cup of tea. He frowned and rolled his eyes. "You might want to borrow that. The book, I mean. I wouldn't mind it. I hate to see a book go to waste. I have so many, they seem lonely sometimes"

Servaas looked at him but didn't say anything.

Turpentine stood up. "Fine, I'll get you some tea." In response to Servaas' questioning stare, he'd said, "I am a very accomplished Leglimens. Don't be surprised."

Servaas said nothing, only thinking that this was far more hospitality than he'd ever expected from a Death Eater.

Servaas, left alone in the cellar, leaned over to see if he could look into the mirror. In the dim glass, he could see his own face outlined by moonlight. However, in the inch or so of potion that flickered and teemed between the mirror and the air, he thought he could see other faces – familiar ones, faces from his past. He involuntarily bent forward, his hand on the edge of the basin. But then he restrained his hand: these were only illusions.

By the time Turpentine had returned, levitating a tea tray with a hot cup of tea and a single biscuit (but no cream or sugar – Mr. Ollivander wasn't a _guest_, now, was he?), Mr. Ollivander was staring into the depths of the potion with rapt attention.

"Ah." Turpentine put down the tea tray and offered a cup to his ward. "I see you _are_ interested in my project."

"Rather."

"It's all just a preliminary stage, of course… there is much else to do. But I feel I'm close to some kind of breakthrough." He coughed, and said with a haughty mien, "I shall leave the book I'm using with you tomorrow. You shall read it, and I shall test you on it that night."

Servaas took a grateful sip of the hot tea, but could not help saying "I did not realize that you would be both a library, a schoolmaster, _and_ a jailer."

Turpentine flashed a rather cold smile as he bent over the potion again, adding a single drop of distilled essence of rosemary. "Oh, don't think that I don't have an experiment in mind for you, too, Mr. Ollivander. Wait and see. Wait and see."

Turpentine left shortly after these comforting words, leaving his mirror to soak further in the brew, and leaving Servaas to shiver in the cellar, wondering exactly what experiment he meant.

However, true to his word, the next day Turpentine did leave a book behind on the table in the cellar – a small but thick volume bound in blue and silver, with a small mirror set into the cover, offset by the illustration of a melancholy-eyed nymph. There had also been a rather creaky, but suitable desk lamp left behind, so that Servaas could clearly see the book's name: '_Mind's Eye, Soul's Reflection_,' by Timothea Glace.

Dora Tonks had only been 'home' – 'home' being her Hogsmeade flat – for an hour, and, feeling too restless for tea, had set to work making the flat a habitable place rather than an arbitrary set of rooms. Her old Snidget alarm clock was set on the mantle, and as it chimed a quarter past one a knock came at the door. Dora hurried to it, hearing also the jangling of a key. She called, "Security question!" She poised before the door. There was a silence on the other side. Then, from outside, "We didn't establish these."

"No. We didn't. But that's no excuse."

"Fine. What was your nickname our third year at Hogwarts?"

Dora paused, one hand over her mouth. "Very good," she managed. "Wasn't that when I insisted on being called Fadora?"

"Yes," came the voice from outside. "Now can I come in?"

"As good a question as that was, no, not until – hm! What was the final score of the Quidditch game in which you played Seeker? And name the teams."

"That score was 190 to 150, Ravenclaw's win over Slytherin. The next game was against Gryffindor, and the actual Seeker for the Ravenclaw team felt well enough to get pummeled, leaving me, the reserve Seeker, to watch and cheer from the stands."

"Very good! Come on in." She checked the peephole (just in case) and then opened the door for Calliope. When she had stepped in, Dora peered into the darkness before shutting the door and locking it. "No Gregorovitch?"

"No. He was for some reason insistent that he could deal on his own, and then he insisted on speaking in German. Cor, I _hate_ the new security measures." She slumped into a chair. "Nice decorating, though," she said, glancing around. "Why are you up so late?"

"Insomnia. Mostly. Too much to think about. Let me show you your room…"

"I'm not going to bed just yet – "

"But you should see it, I picked the view especially for you, c'mon…"

The two women left through an inner doorway, turning off the lamp as they went.

Hector Gibbs stood outside the courtroom, flooded in the tintless light from a torch blazing above – Proman's Registered Trademark Torch no. 47, to be specific. Hector shifted in his blue cloak, fastened over a black business suit – and heard a tramping sound to his left.

He turned to see a man in Muggle clothes (jeans and a dark red shirt with the large words "U Penn" on it), escorted by a security guard (human, thank goodness), approaching him. The guard flanked the man like a prisoner; as he approached Hector noticed that he had not shaved and that he had a large, though faint, bruise on his jaw. Yet he nodded courteously to Hector as he was stopped next to him.

After a minute's pause and a glance at his guard, the Muggle leaned over and asked Hector, "Are you a wizard?"

Hector, not used to answering this question, replied a little stiffly, "Yes."

"_Wow_. Wick-ed," the Muggle responded, separating the syllables. A little silence, then he enthusiastically inquired, "So! Have you been a wizard all your life?"

"Ah – yes, I have been a wizard all my life." Hector glanced down the corridor, both ends. Would somebody come?

"So you were born a wizard, is what you're saying."

"Yes, my mother and father were both wizards from wizarding families, in fact my mother's line traces very far back…"

"Is that the only way to be a wizard?"

"What?"

"I mean, to be _born_ one." Despite having both of his arms restrained, the man could gesture quite dramatically with his shoulders and head.

"Well, yes. You don't have to have magical parents, but you are born with magic."

"So an average Joe like me couldn't gain magic. Am I right?"

"Ah – right, sir." Please, he could not be doomed to be alone in the hallway with this – this _Muggle_. Wouldn't the security guard say something?

"No matter what I do?"

"That's – right. No matter what you do."

The Muggle settled back, looking a bit put off. Hector let out a quiet breath of relief before the Muggle resumed with, "So what do you do for a living?"

Hector clutched his attaché case tightly and coughed. "Well, until recently, I was studying the crafting and selling of… um, magic wands."

"Magic wands?" The Muggle's whole face lit up. "And you _make_ them?"

"…Yes?"

"_Wow_. Out of what?"

"… Wood?"

"I kind of figured that, yeah. And anything else?"

"Well, um… there's three options there, there's unicorn tail-hair…"

Fortunately at this point the door to the courtroom swung open, otherwise the Muggle might have gone straight into ecstatic cardiac arrest on that last sentence. The guard pulled the Muggle in. Both entered at once, with Hector meekly following.

They had walked through a black door which closed behind them into a starkly lit courtroom. The Muggle was deposited in a heavy iron chair by the guard, who then retreated into the stands. Hector saw a thin wooden chair set aside, before a matching table. He glanced at it hesitantly before a thick male voice sounded: "Be seated, if you please." Hector perched himself into the chair and looked up.

The clearest figure on the bench was a round-headed man with fat hands; that was all Hector could see of him, but it was enough to recognize Pius Thicknesse, the newly appointed Head of Magical Law Enforcement. "All members of the defense and expert witness being present and seated, we'll now begin. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," came the answer from the court scribe, a young, handsome black woman poised over the parchment like a runner over the starting line.

"Hearing on Thursday, August 30th," Thicknesse began in a relatively routine voice, "into an infarction against Wizarding Common Law, that is, the carrying of a wand by a non-magical being, committed by Mark Emory Printzen, a Muggle of Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America. Interrogators: Pius Frollo Thicknesse, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Eliezar Chancery Smith, head of the Muggle Relations Office – " a thin man shifted in the seat next to Thicknesse in a self-assured way, "Dolores Jane Umbridge, Junior Undersecretary to the Minister… Court Scribe, Agatha Michelle Zabini, expert witness, Hector Irving Gibbs. If everyone is ready, we'll begin."

"Excuse me, sir," said the Muggle, now identified as Mark Emory Printzen. The attention in the room focused on him like a lens – except for the court scribe, who kept writing.

"Yes?" Thicknesse said.

"Sir, I don't think that woman – "

"Which woman?"

"The one on your left – should be allowed to interrogate here."

Hector saw the plump and flaccid form straighten up beside Thicknesse as though hit with lightning. She leaned forward and asked, in a high-pitched voice that did not sound like any little girl Hector had ever met, "And why not?" An iron curl, having escaped from its pink snood, bobbed in the light.

"Because she's a biased juror!" Mark Printzen replied. "She asked for my arrest, she was there when I was captured, by all rights she should be on the floor with me, not passing ju—"

"By all rights," Umbridge over-rode him, "that is, by the rights given me by the Minister, by Mr. Thicknesse here, and by every other case over which I have presided, I have the authority here to stay where I am."

"But –" Mark Printzen started, but now it was Eliezar Smith who spoke, not unkindly: "This court system is in an inquisitorial court, where we, the judges, ask the questions to determine the truth, unlike the court of opposition, which you may be used to, where a defense side and a prosecuting side haggle over questions until the jury or judge decides which is right. That's the American way of doing it, right?"

"Thank you, Smith," Thicknesse nodded. "And now that _that_ has been sorted out, we'll begin." He cleared his throat. "Mark Printzen, is it true that yesterday, the 29th of August, that you, an admitted non-wizard, attempted to force entry into the Leaky Cauldron?"

For a moment the Muggle did not answer, and then, when Hector glanced over at him, he said, quite clearly, "I refuse to answer."

"Excuse me?" This from Thicknesse, unbelieving.

"I refuse to answer until I am given, by the court, an advocate to represent me. I readily admit I'm not a wizard. I didn't know for sure wizards existed until yesterday. I am thoroughly unsuitable to represent myself here. I demand legal counsel."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Thicknesse turned and leaned to face Smith, "Is he able to demand that?"

"Yes, I am!" Mark said. "As a citizen of the United States, the 1963 case Gideon vs. Wainwright gives me the right – " (Smith groaned, "Don't tell me we'll need to get the International Relations in here too…") Over him, Mark repeated, "I'm a citizen of the United States, and my rights apply to me here as well as –"

"Don't speak until spoken to!" Umbridge spat.

Thicknesse's monotone voice cut over both. "Mr. Printzen, you realize that if we refuse to answer, we can assume that the facts lie to the affirmative, as in, _yes_, you did try to enter the Leaky Cauldron. We will renew your right to answer with each question, but if you persist in this vein…"

"Wasting the court's time," Umbridge added in a hiss.

"Your conviction is virtually assured."

"Give me legal counsel and time to consult them, and I'll answer anything."

"You should know, Mr. Printzen, that as a Muggle you can gain no representation except that which volunteers to help you. Do you have any friends, any connections, at all, in our world?"

A silence. Mark Printzen looked down.

"Do you, Mr. –"

"None that I know of for certain." Mark snapped.

"Well, then," Umbridge said, as if explaining to a slow child, "you can hardly expect a Magical Law Enforcement official to come rushing to your aid out of the goodness of his heart, now _can_ you?"

"Therefore," Thicknesse sighed, "we will continue with the trial as before. Mr. Printzen, you retain the right to answer or to refuse to answer, as you wish." There was a shuffling of paper. "Mr. Pritnzen, is _this_ wand –" a cabinet opened in the wall before Mark, revealing a glass case with the white wand inside of it, the splash of blood on the handle faded, but still clear, "the one that was in your possession when you entered the Leaky Cauldron?"

Mark leaned forward and, after a short pause, said "Yes."

Then Thicknesse said, "The chair calls Hector Gibbs to the stand." Hector stood up immediately.

"Will you please identify this wand to the best of your ability?"

"Yes, sir," Hector replied, and he approached the case carefully. After looking up at the judges for approval, he opened the case and gingerly removed the wand (the blood made him grimace, at first). "Approximately eleven inches," he muttered, and then repeated, louder, "Approximately eleven inches," for all the court to hear. In the same recitation voice, he continued, "The light color especially, but the light weight and fine grin indicate this to be of lime, also called linden, wood. Linden wood is, um, a very reliable wand wood, yes." Now Hector had set his briefcase on the table and he opened it, taking out (some by hand, some by magic) a peculiar balance, in which both "scales" were narrow tubes, and one tube was weighted down with battered little metal coins. Hector took a vial of clear blue potion out from the briefcase and carefully poured it into the weighted tube.

With great precision, he put the wand into the empty tube. The balance, however, remained on the tube with the potion and coins. With his own wand Hector carefully removed the metal coins, one by one, and set them aside. With the removal of each coin the balance slowly evened itself. When twelve coins where left floating the balance was made.

Hector straightened up and said, "This wand has been in use for twelve years, almost twelve and a half. I must say, it's in very good condition for its age. And as for the core –"

Hector took the linden wand out of the tube and tapped the balance with his own wand. It shrank and folded itself back into his briefcase. Hector heard a little gasp from Mark Printzen. Feeling quite the professional, the wandmaker took the linden wand between his palms with fingers extended. He rubbed it there a couple of times and then pointed it forward and said, "_Coerum Montay_."

At once a high, sweet note filled the chamber, and from the wand's tip blossomed a crimson and gold firework of a giant, elegant bird. It flew once around Hector and Mark, still singing its pure melody – as Hector watched it, he saw Mark was gaping at it with a child's delight – and the two suddenly made eye contact and smiled at each other with camaraderie. The phoenix firework made a larger turn about the room, now encompassing the judges' bench (Umbridge looked like she might be ill). With that turn done, the phoenix swooped to the middle of the room and, giving one last note as sublime as a bird's pipe could give. Then it dissolved, sparks flaring before going out into nothing, leaving not even steam.

"Well," Hector said after a pause, when the note's echo had at length faded, "the core then is phoenix feather."

"Phoenix?" Mark Printzen repeated, astounded. "Was that a phoenix we just saw?"

"Don't speak until spoken to!" Umbridge snapped. To Hector she said only, "Continue."

Hector swallowed. "I would say with reasonable certainty that this wand in my hand was made by Oll – by my family's wand shop." With a barb of dread, Hector recalled that the shop's name might need changing soon.

"And to whom was it sold?" Umbridge leaned forward, nearly upstaging Thicknesse.

There was a silence wherein the court scribe's quill scratched rapidly and then quieted after a moment.

"Me?" repeated Hector.

"Yes, your uncle could recall a wand's owner just by looking at it, can't you?"

"I'm not my uncle! I've only been working summers in the shop until last year!" Hector brushed his pale hair out of his eyes. Exasperated, he added, "Haven't you _noticed?_"

Umbridge's pasty face was flushed now with anger, and she began to say, "You will not speak – " but she began to wheeze out of nowhere. She slumped back, panting, and Thicknesse sprang up to pull her chair back. "Dolores, don't get overexcited now." Eliezar Smith took the floor. "This hearing has been postponed until tomorrow so as to give Hector Irving Gibbs time to research who bought a wand answering to that description. Mark Printzen, you will be escorted back to the Sycorax Wizard Jail for the remainder of the day. Court dismissed."

That afternoon, Hector, very bravely (he thought) sought out the Obliviator's division of the Ministry of Magic. He found Linus' office by asking after 'that bespectacled fellow with the black hair and goatee.' Upon finding it, with Linus bent over his papers diligently, he entered.

Linus looked up. "Hector? What are you doing here?"

"Listen, Linus, I need a minute to talk. Have you got one?"

"Sure, sure, come in, just a minute, what's the matter?"

"Well…" Hector sat down in the only other seat, "you see, yesterday I was summoned to be the expert witness in a case – this really peculiar case, too: a Muggle who knew nothing about magic or anything of our world managed to acquire a wand and was trying to enter the Leaky Cauldron, though he couldn't _see_ it. His stuff's all been taken into the court's custody and everything."

"Why not just modify his memories?"

"Because in the Leaky Cauldron at the time was Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, Dolores Umbridge. You know her?"

"A little."

"She's forceful, Linus. And I think her stint at Hogwarts really tweaked with her head. And she hates Muggles. And this Muggle is an American, too, right, so he's also insisting – _insisting_ – on his apparent Constituent right to representation provided by the court itself."

Linus stifled a scoff. "Good luck to him."

"So, he's refusing to answer questions which he does not think he is competent to answer. He knows he could be incriminating himself, but he thinks ignorance is worse than silence. And I'm the expert witness, I'm not supposed to really feel for the guy, but I do, I feel sorry for him, and so… I was wondering…"

"_What_, Hector?"

"Would you please come to the court tomorrow as witness for the defense?"

Linus' facial expression did not count as a response.

"He can only get defense that will volunteer itself, and it has to be a member of the Wizengamot or Magical Law Enforcement – "

"And you immediately thought of your good cousin. Thanks, but have you forgotten, as a witness, you _can't_ just bring in defense for the accused, you'll look biased!"

"Biased? Me? I tell who the shop records say bought such and such a wand, for Ptolemy's sake, I can't possibly express bias on this case. It's impossible."

"But – "

"And, as an Obliviator, you get to retain anonymity even in a court of law, if you're an interrogator or counsel. Or expert witness. See, I've studied!"

"See, that's the other thing: Obliviators like me typically enter cases to force a confession."

"All he needs is someone to be his legal counsel – inform him of the choices he has, the possible convictions he could face, stuff like that. Help him form his defense. You can _totally_ do this, Linus. Please, you get paid leave of absence from your work –"

"My job is important, Hector—"

"But this guy needs help and no one else can do it! There's no one I can ask! What will it cost you, a couple of days out of the office? (Monotony is unhealthy, you know.) To clear this guy's story, clear his name, and send him home. Wow. Big sacrifice there."

"Don't try to guilt me out –"

"I'm not! This is a friendless Muggle who is perfectly sane and doesn't have a Snidget's chance unless you help him, because I can't help him, and I'm just informing you of his existence. In case you care. The trial tomorrow – I just got an owl – is at one in the afternoon. He's staying at the Sycorax Jail under the Thames, I understand, and your status as an Obliviator should garner you entrance to it. If you know the prisoner's name that'll get you in, too, it's Mark Printzen, remember. Okay, I'll stop taking up your time."

"That's all you have to say?"

After a little pause, "Um, yeah."

"Bye, then, Hector."

"Bye, Linus." Hector closed the door like he closed an argument, nodding cordially to passerby.

"Foolishness," Linus muttered when he'd gone. "Like I need something else on my plate." He resumed the filing of the Knowledge authorization form for the parents of eleven-year-old Nettie Griswold, and brushed stray crumbs from his lunch off of the desk. He paused. The Sycorax, while nowhere near the absolute hell that was Azkaban, had been subject to some investigations for the poor quality of its food. One unlucky prisoner had sickened and died before he even saw his trial day. These investigations were usually dropped half-heartedly, because after all – they were only criminals.

Linus resumed his work, but his quill paused often, and he seemed visibly distracted until he elected to leave work early that day.

The basin of memory potion and the mirror had been moved, possibly to a room which would afford better moonlight. At any rate, it was clear that Turpentine had moved on to a new 'experiment.'

To Servaas' line of sight, the table in Turpentine's basement had been moved more prominently to the center of the room. After one more hour of carving into it with his wand, Turpentine had stepped aside, satisfied, and gone upstairs, presumably, to rest. He had come down two hours later carrying a box in his arms.

The box, set beside the table and opened, yielded nine perfectly clear crystal vials, of uniform shape and size (all small and cylindrical), which were then set in a circle around the rim of the table. Some of the bottles were clear, but at least three which Servaas could see glowed with some silvery-blue substance from within, which seethed and curled. After placing each of these bottles precisely equidistant from each other, Turpentine called to Servaas. "My good Mr. Ollivander, do you know what I am doing?"

"No," croaked Servaas meekly from his pallet.

"Good. Do you feel homesick, sir?"

Servaas, stunned by the incredulous question, did not answer for a moment, but rejoined, "Is this a joke?"

"Not at all. I wonder, are you homesick?"

"Well – well, yes. I do miss a soft bed, and, oh, freedom to go where I like…"

"Is there a _person_ whom you miss?"

Another pause. "Of course. Lots of them."

"You think on them often, I suppose?"

"Well, it's better than reflecting on you and your company."

"Hmph. I don't suppose all those you remember are still living – you probably recollect many a departed friend from days long ago. They tell me, sir, that you can recall the make and materials of any wand you have ever sold, as well as the recipient. Is this true?"

"Indeed it is." Even in his binds and darkened corner Servaas sat up straighter.

"Could you describe for me the Dark Lord's wand?"

"Thirteen inches," Servaas said quietly but clearly. "Yew and phoenix feather. A powerful wand of unyielding but erratic character."

"Fascinating. I'll remember that." Turpentine ambled over to where Servaas sat. "Could you, perhaps, describe the owner of a cinnamon wood wand, ten and a half inches in length, with a dragon heartstring at its core?"

Servaas could not answer this one so clearly, nor so quickly. "That would be the wand that belonged to my brother's daughter, Philomel Ollivander."

"Did you make that one?"

"No, actually, that wand had sat for nearly a hundred years before finding a suitable candidate."

"Quite impressive memory, but do you remember who owned a wand made of cypress and unicorn tail hair, almost but not quite ten inches? I'm _very_ interested in the answer."

A long silence followed that remark. When Servaas trusted himself to speak, he said evenly, "That belonged to Philomel's first born… Benedicte."

"That was all that was ever recovered," Turpentine said airily. "The wand still clutched in her right hand. Such a tragic tale of young loss… it must have broken your family's heart, to have never known her fate… I, of course, was studying in America when all of that fell out… great interrogation techniques I picked up from the House Un-American activities, I wouldn't be where I am now without them… but I understood the media made quite a to-do about it. Even with all the other disappearances and things, Benedicte Ollivander – Benedicte Ollivander! Just stuck in the public's mind. Like certain killings in the Muggle press – horrible things happen to young women, never known exactly for certain, and nobody forgets them."

Turpentine sat down on the floor before Servaas, not letting his conversational tone waver. "But there was a group of people who knew Benedicte but didn't remember her death. Strange little control group, yes? They were Muggles."

Servaas' eyes widened in the darkness. He did not remember this.

"You see, in what seems to be a degradation of what had once been an upstanding bloodline, the Ollivanders and the Crouch line, too – the last child of that generation actually dressed up as a Muggle and, for one summer, worked on a play which mocked and aped wizardry, the lowest point to which a wizard could sink – she actually created the costumes and sent up the trapeze and in all other ways _served_ this mockery!"

He paused. "Are you still following me?"

Servaas nodded carefully.

"However…" Now Turpentine smiled a little, getting up and walking back to the table, "It did leave a wealth of memories for the picking, simple Muggle memories which suit me just fine for an experiment I'm running. You see, Mr. Ollivander, you and I are something alike, we're both Ravenclaws, seeking to know more and illuminate the very deepest secrets of magic."

He walked around the table, "Here's –" he tapped one filled bottle, glowing slightly like dandelion heads, with his wand, "a nice little chain of simple but pleasant encounters with Benny the stage hand, provided by the play's various cast and crew members…" He set his hands on the neck of the second bottle, whose contents seemed more unified, "a rich summer's afternoon, flavored with a trop to the grocery store and a ride on those Muggle contraptions, bicycles, which belonged to the girl who played the lead in that horrid play… here are two evenings backstage, sharing a bottle." The third filled bottle tilted at his touch. "And this bottle – you'll like this one, this doesn't come from the play at all, this is courtesy of Rodolphus Lestrange. He was close to your niece shortly before her murder – why or how, I didn't ask – but provided an out-of-the-box memory of your niece pre-mortem, which I think will serve me just fine, and here – oh, sadness, five empty bottles left. And I exhausted my source of reliable friends of your niece, unless I want to incur suspicion… unless _you_ would be willing to help?"

Servaas had now an inkling of what Master Turpentine's profession was, and a few dark phrases surfaced in his mind as to his intentions. But Servaas was calculating what this man knew and how he, the wandmaker, might resist interrogation. Finally he said, "You'll have to convince me that this is a valuable experiment to try and get me to sacrifice my own memories. They're irreplaceable, you know."

"This is a _very_ valuable experiment, Mr. Ollivander."

"Are you – are you even an professional, or is this just a hobby? My nephew –"

Servaas was interrupted by a loud nasally laugh. "Don't bring up your nephew in comparison to me. Do you want to know if I'm a professional? I'll tell you my title, my hard-won title within the Ministry of Magic: I'm an Omniamnist. It's hard to pronounce and harder still to gain. That is the highest possible title that one can win in the field I work in. I am the best of the best. Your nephew, he may be an Obliviator, but me – do you know what _Omni-Amnist_ means? It means 'All-forgetting.' That is my business, that is my work. Don't think I'm not a professional."

He advanced towards Servaas, two empty bottles in one hand, his wand held aloft in the other. The wand flicked and an orb of persistent yellowy light as from a lamp flared above Servaas' head. Servaas blinked at the light and sprang back: Turpentine's face was just a few inches away from his.

In the mustard-colored light, Servaas studied his captor's face intently: He had a slightly crooked nose and very high color in his cheeks, as opposed to the rest of his face, which lent him a blotchy appearance. He was thin, but, after muttering a spell that forced Servaas to look into his eyes, he stared at Servaas' face with a frightening intensity.

Servaas felt a wand press into his temple and, in a desperate fear, tried to shift his mind away from what he knew the man wanted. He heard Turpentine mutter, "_Leglimens_," and, in a reflexive spasm, tried to twist away – _think_ –

A perfectly innocuous day, a picnic on the isle of Skye with his family, before his niece was born, let alone her children – was easily spun forward in time, Philomel's father and mother, newlyweds, laughing together about a rain-spoiled picnic – their voices changed to the hollers of five-year old Philomel running through the sunlight – the sun shining through a church window as Philomel held a baby positively swamped in white eyelet –

"_No!_"

"_Onspiros!_" Turpentine hissed.

Servaas felt a pain like a needle that seemed to strike through his head, deep into his brain. A shock jarred his entire body and then Turpentine pulled his wand away, a string of white and silver fog pulling from Servaas' temple. He _felt_ the tension, and gave a faint moan when Turpentine tugged, and it broke off. When that happened Servaas was allowed to fall onto the mat, limp with shock.

Turpentine looked at him, not unsympathetically, and said, "The first time is by far the worst. Your brain gets a little accustomed to the spell, though, that's what all the books say." Then, turning away, he pulled from his pocket a peculiar tool, which resembled a pair of stoneware tongs, only instead of gripping utensils at the ends, there were two rows of interlocking teeth like the mouth of a fly-eating plant. Into these closed teeth Turpentine carefully placed the fog-line of Servaas' memory. Now, quite heedless of the shuddering form behind him, he grasped the handle and opened the teeth.

Between the open teeth the memory stretched out and showed, as on a screen the length and breadth of a handspan. No sound came from it, except a tinny, tiny copy of the conversation between Philomel, her husband, and the baby's godparents before the Naming of Godparents ceremony began. Turpentine stroked the teeth of the upper comb with his wand and the Lilliputian scene blanched, whitened, and reshaped itself to the image of a very proud godmother –a pale-haired flower of a woman who smiled at the infant gently – leading the rest of the company to their luncheon.

Turpentine clicked his tongue. "This is good… this memory adds variety, family affection, it's just what I need… you've done quite well, Mr. Ollivander. So I'll reward you."

He closed the tongs, took the memory out with his wand, and deposited it gently into an empty bottle.

"I'll give you a whole day to rest and recuperate now. Maybe you'll even get some tea before the next session. Rest your brain. Gather your thoughts. Sleep now." He waved his wand with the last words, and, unwillingly but irresistibly, Servaas' eyes closed and he drifted into his own unconscious, a far more scattered and troubled place than it had been that morning.

The next morning, a figure in an unfastened grey cloak could be seen standing by the street entrance to the Sycorax, which was a stone the size of a man set into the bank of the Thames. A slot in the lamppost above slid out; a tinny voice echoed out, "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I am L.F.O., an Oneironomist –"

"A _what_?"

"An Obliviator with the Ministry of Magic. I'm here to speak to Mark Emory Printzen."

_Rain. Don't know the day. The entire floor damp. Coughing now. T. seems eager to test my memory with the book on mirror enchantments. Has experiments. Stole a memory from me earlier. Benedicte Clemence Ollivander. Benedicte and her second cousin Barty Crouch were close. When they were young. Grouped together at family reunions. Benny was a Gryffindor like Philomel. Very good with her hands. Loved to collect figurines of animals. Her bedroom was all painted in red and gold she did it herself and she studied the Chinese Zodiac and Egyptian symbols and any sort of craft she could do. I MUST REMEMBER._


	8. The Muggle on Trial

The Muggle On Trial

There is a jail in London called the Sycorax, or, more properly, the Thames Jail. It lies beneath the ancient medieval prison, the Clink. It is the place for prisoners who are awaiting trials. This is where criminals go before Azkaban, before they are fined or set free, if they're lucky. It's a very large jail, but in the early days of the Second War it was very full, very frequently.

One wing, however (a wing of about three rooms) remained open: the Muggle Wing.

When Linus was admitted into the Sycorax and stated his purpose, he was told that "the Muggle" had taken advantage of the free period today and was dictating a letter. The warden who told this to Linus smirked, as though he doubted anyone that the Muggle knew could have the slightest chance of helping him.

"Dear Andrew," Mark started, his eyes fixed on the wall before him, "I admit, I've been kind of stupid. I'm right now in a jail – the Thames Jail – the Sycorax – the one answering to the Ministry of Magic in England – can we start over?"

The scribe glared at him with a frown, but tapped the paper with his wand and the ink flew back into the quill. "As you wish," he said flatly.

The Sycorax does not let inmates write their own letters – the idea being that a truly Dark wizard would be able to enchant the paper with a secret message, or a dangerous spell. However, it does allow them to dictate to a scribe, who approves the content of the letter, and keeps it confidential (usually) and mails it off. No one thought that perhaps the Muggle should be allowed to write his own letter.

"Sorry – okay… I swear I thought about this… okay. Starting over. Dear Andrew. It's Mark Printzen. As you know by now, I set out for the Fringe Festival last week, and Bridget probably told you I stayed behind to explore London. When I arrived in London, I thought that I would look for Calliope. All I had was an address in her purse to go off of, 'The Leaky Cauldron,' so I looked for that. I found the street it was on, but when I tried to look further I was arrested. I… well, the secret's out. (New paragraph, please.) Calliope is a witch. I'm only telling you this because I'm pretty sure you're a wizard. (New paragraph, please.)"

The scribe glared at him again.

"For dramatic effect."

"As you wish." The scribe gave a little sniff.

"Okay. New paragraph. How do I know? I was arrested by the Ministry of Magic, of England, and am now staying in the Thames Jail awaiting my second day of trial. I'm accused of having stolen a wand. I haven't told them whose it is yet because – because I'm waiting for representation from the state." He paused. "I know it's kind of stupid…"

"Yes, it is," the scribe agreed.

"But I insist on my right to representation. That's why I'm writing to you, Andy. Please, as soon as you get this letter, as soon as you can, come and help me. I know you're a wizard. I know Calliope's a witch. I'm going to be sending a letter off to her, too."

The scribe lifted his eyebrows but said nothing.

"Whatever qualms you have, I'm sure we can work it out. Please come and help me. I'm – they're not treating me very well here. I can't do this alone."

As Mark said the last sentence, the door opened and two people walked in. One was the warden of the Sycorax, the other was a man that Mark had never seen before.

"I hope this letter reaches you soon. I'll be waiting for you. Yours, Mark."

"Mark _Printzen_?" the scribe asked.

"Well, yeah, I guess, but he's known me long enough that… yes, Mark Printzen. And I sign it, right?"

"Here you are. Here's the quill."

From his side of the room Linus watched dispassionately. It was clear that the Muggle had never even held a quill before. He pressed too hard on the paper and almost tore it. "Umm…"

"_Reparo_," the scribe said, waving his wand, in a tone of very strained patience.

Mark bit his tongue and asked if he could use a ballpoint pen.

"We don't have any pens."

The Muggle sighed through his teeth. "Okay." He carefully refilled the quill and printed neatly on the paper this time. He handed the letter back to the scribe, who folded it up and slid it into an envelope.

"The address?"

"Andrew Dupont, 750 Harrow Dell, Somerville, Massachusetts, 02143, United States of America."

Linus raised his eyebrows. '_Massachusetts?_' he thought. '_Could he know – no. Come on. That's impossible._'

"The United States? It'll be a while afore it reaches him."

"Well, I'll wait. Thank you."

"Mm."

"And my second letter…"

"You only get one letter."

"What?"

"That's policy."

"No it's not! You let the guy before me send two letters!"

"That was different."

"What, has he been here longer? Is his need somehow more urgent?"

"You only get one letter, Muggle, and yelling won't change that. Besides…" the scribe nodded to towards the door. "It looks like you've got a visitor."

Mark turned. The man in the grey cloak (Mark hadn't even noticed him until now) held out a hand.

"I'm L.O.," he said politely. "I've come to be your representation before the Wizengamot."

"Nice to meet you – L.O.?" Mark repeated, studying the other man's face. L.O. was very pale, with black hair and a black goatee, and sharp pale eyes behind oval spectacles. His long face was vaguely familiar to Mark…

"My department – the Obliviator's and Paramnesiac Department – uses initials exclusively, for anonymity's sake. I'm used to going by my initials in a professional setting. I'm sure you understand."

"Ah. Perfectly fine. I'm Mark Printzen."

"I know. Let's proceed to your cell, shall we?"

Mark took one last, rather sullen glare at the scribe, who had already laid out a fresh sheet of parchment for the next inmate. "All right."

The warden led them to the first cell in the tiny Muggle wing of the jail. Linus took stock at once of the tiny space. The fake window in the room looked out over a seascape, complete with a few sounds of crying gulls. It reminded Linus uneasily of Azkaban. "All right. Er, Warden, if you could provide us with…"

The door opened and two house-elves entered, each carrying a chair. They set them down and Linus said, "Thank you." A table floated in behind them and arranged itself, complete with a pitcher of water and two tumblers. The elves left without a word. When Linus turned he noticed that the Muggle—that Mr. Pritnzen had been watching the elves dedicatedly. Linus cleared his throat and Printzen looked up.

"Oh yes! Have a seat," he said, suddenly a host. Linus sat down and began speaking rather quickly.

"I am here to represent you in court and be your consul. As an employee of the Muggle Liaison Office and Magical Law Enforcement, I work with Muggles on a daily basis. I am here to answer all of your questions, inform you of your rights, and advise you on where the law stands in relation to you. In return, you shall answer honestly any and all questions which I ask pertinent to the case, with the utmost truth, to the best of your knowledge. I'm warning you now –" Linus put his tool kit in his fabric briefcase onto the table and opened it:

Two sets of clawed tongs, a silver-framed hand mirror, and a row of crystal phials, most filled with different potions, and a few narrow, empty ones, glittered in the fake sunlight.

"—I have the methods, tools, and legal authority to force the truth out of you if I suspect you are lying. I do not want to resort to these. I am your ally, so please tell me the truth. Any questions?"

Mark Printzen did not answer right away. "Well, yes, I have loads of questions… but I want to tell you what happened to me first, from the beginning. May I do that?"

"Yes. That's a great place to start. Just give me one second." Linus took out from his briefcase a new Querying Quill, specially designed for interviews (from the manufacturers of the Quick-Quotes Quill and the Quasher's Quill, among others). He set the dark blue feather on a fresh piece of parchment and said, "Testing, interview with Mark Emory Printzen by L.O., Obliviator…" The quill recorded in spiritless but legible writing exactly what he said. He nodded. "Good. Now, you were saying?"

Mark Printzen took a deep breath. "All right. I did not steal the wand."

"Then how did it come into your possession?"

"I didn't know what it was. It was left behind when its owner – disappeared. Vanished. With a crack like a gunshot. Maybe she teleported?"

"Apparation," L.O. replied automatically.

"I've been meaning to return it to her."

"That's good. You've probably noticed by now, but theft of a wizard or witch's wand is a very serious crime. A wand is not only a wizard's identifying marker, it is our greatest tool in everyday life. So the fact that you didn't mean to steal it will help you immensely."

"… Thanks. I'm going to tell you the name of the witch it belongs to."

"All right."

He took a deep breath. "The woman's name is Calliope Ollivander."

L.O. gave a small lurch, as though he'd hiccupped. His eyes widened, and he looked at Mark disbelievingly.

The quill wrote down the words and then paused, waiting for something else to be said. It waited for a very long time.

"… Is something wrong?" Mark ventured at last.

"Did you say Calliope Ollivander?"

"Yes."

"That's _Calliope Ollivander's_ wand that you have?"

"Yes. Do you know her?"

"Calliope _Blithe _Ollivander?"

"I'm going to assume you know her."

"I don't want to assume, I want to be certain. Hold on a minute." L.O. stoodup and walked around the table to be right next to Mark. "Look me in the eye." Mark complied, but was hardly able to register their color when L.O. said, "_Legilimens_."

Mark gasped, but didn't even notice. He saw, suddenly, unbidden, Calliope's face as he'd seen her in ten, twenty different moments, days, lights, moods. His heart quickened – but as soon as it had started, it was over. He was looking into L.O.'s face again – and realized that L.O. had seen everything that Mark had.

Mark's face started to get red. "What was that?"

"So it _is_ her…" L.O. didn't answer. Instead he turned away and uneasily started walking back to his chair. "You have _her_ wand – we have to return it to her, then, as soon as possible…"

"Answer my question!" Mark demanded. "What was that a minute ago? Were you reading my mind?"

L.O. shot him a look. "No, we don't 'read minds' the way that Muggles think of it. I did, however, look into your memories, just to be sure that we know the same… lady."

Mark swallowed hard and tried to force himself to stop blushing. "You should have asked me – those are my thoughts, you don't have the right to see them."

"I told you I'm your consul, I told you I'll do what it takes to get the truth."

"You could have asked for biographical information on her! Like the fact that she's British? Or is allergic to nuts?"

"The point _is_," L.O. said sharply, "I know the identity of the person whose wand you st—took. I'll write to her immediately and summon her to the trial. Sheshould be reunited with her wand as soon as possible. Why didn't you name her before?"

"She said she was returning to England because of a family emergency. I – I didn't want to drag her into this. And I didn't want to admit anything before I had a representative."

"You really are keen on that idea, aren't you?"

Mark gave a short laugh. "I find it personally important to be 'keen' on one's Constitutional rights. But wait a minute. I hate to say it, but the fact that you know Calliope personally – does that make you –"

"Unfit to be your consul? Not at all. Besides, I'm not going to leave. No one else is going to come take your case."

"What?"

"The court itself didn't ask me. Someone who is not affiliated with the Wizengamot asked me."

Mark considered a moment. "Was it Mr. Gibbs? The wandmaker?"

"What? How – I'm not going to tell you."

"Suit yourself."

"Besides, I applied for special permission to take the time to represent you. My supervisor, T.R., was not overly pleased at my taking time off. My job is very demanding, so I'm going to make use of the time I have here."

"Okay, okay, I didn't – I didn't actually want you to go. I'm really glad to have you here. And the fact that you know Calliope is – wow. That helps out a lot too."

"How exactly did you come by her wand? She Disapparated in front of you and left her wand behind?"

Mark shifted guiltily. "Actually… I hit her with my car."

"_What?_"

"It was very dark and she just ran out into the street like she always does – I stood on the brakes immediately, so the car was almost stopped anyway – "

"God's sake, don't mention that in front of the Wizengamot – don't Muggles hit people with cars to kill them?"

"Only in the movies. I didn't even know who she was when she disappeared!"

"But you don't think you hit her hard enough to hurt her?"

"No. Not badly."

L.O. took a calming breath, clenching his hands together.

"I was driving over to see her before she left, to say good-bye."

L.O. looked at him. "To say good-bye?"

"Yes. She went back to England that night – or was planning on it."

"That can't be right."

"I'm pretty sure I'm right."

"But she's not in England, as far as I know."

"Maybe she changed her mind."

"She'd tell me if she'd changed her mind."

"Just how do _you_ know her?"

"We agreed on anonymity, didn't we?"

"I don't think so. I believe you insisted on it."

"And I'm not going to change my mind. But whether she's in England or not, she's definitely going to come to your trial to speak on your behalf. I'm going to make sure of this. If she's in America, well, then it'll just take longer for the owl to reach her."

"The owl?"

"Enough. Okay. Your next trial is this afternoon, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then let's work on your defense. There's no time to waste. And we'll get a quick lunch on the way over."

"Thank you. Now, after I got her wand, the first person I ran into was my friend Andrew, who's a wizard, I think, but he grew up with me, and I'm not sure…"

"Muggle-born."

"He was born a Muggle?"

"No, his parents are probably Muggle. Go on. Is he the one you were sending a letter to?"

"Yes."

"Good idea. Go on."

Mark Printzen and his consul. L.O. entered the courtroom together to attend the second hearing of the accused. All the previous judges were there, plus four new: senior aides from the Embassy to the United States Senate, and the Muggle Relations Office, and a few who seemed to be there merely because Umbridge favored them.

The defense counsel, who, for the sake of his job security, could be addressed merely as "L.F.O.," handed a letter to the judges upon his arrival, explaining, "This is a note from my superior granting me permission and license to defend here."

All the judges, even Umbridge, looked impressed. "Omniamnist T.V.R. is a good reference if ever there were one," Thicknesse muttered.

"That's in order in every way," Umbridge said, passing the letter down to the court scribe. "You are acknowledged as defense counsel.'

Mark approached the chair with some reluctance. Eliezar Smith raised his hand.

"In recognition of Mark Printzen's request as of yesterday morning, of the appointment of legal counsel as specified by the Supreme Court of the United States under Gideon vs. Wainwright, we have adopted some of the rights given to the court and defendant in American Wizard courts, as we see fit. The court hopes Mark Printzen appreciates its generosity."

"Oh, I do, I really do," Mark assured the court. "Thank you very much, Mr. Smith." He nodded to the other judges and took the seat of the Accused. The chains clinked loudly and threateningly as he did.

"What – what does this mean?" He asked L.O.

"If we judge you to be a threat,"barked one of the new judges, a man with sideburns to put many an old U.S. President to shame, "Then the chair recognizes that and will start to bind you, a limb at a time. Second day, your trial isn't going so well, you're under more suspicion. Don't struggle, either, boy, the chair takes that as a sign of guilt."

Mark looked up at him when he said "boy" and his cheeks burned red with anger. However, L.O. said quickly, "Mr. Smith, would you please name some of the privileges that Mr. Printzen is now allowed?"

"Gladly," Eliezar Smith adjusted his lorgnette. "Mr. Printzen, as a Muggle with no understanding of Wizard law, is allowed to call three recesses of whatever length he may like in order to confer with his consul and learn more about his rights."

"Excellent," L.O. said quickly. "Thank you, Mr. Smith."

Mark looked up so that he wouldn't give the appearance of slouching. "L.O., who are those people in the stands?"

The wizard glanced up. "Don't appear too curious – I think they're aides and gophers, interns, probably from the Muggle Relations Office or Magical Law Enforcement. This is an unusual case, so it probably behooves them to watch on it. I don't think they're worth… _worrying_ about…"

His voice trailed off. He glared at a man who was leaning back in a bench all to himself at the top of the courtroom. He had a writing pad and quill in his hands. A card tucked into the band of his Fedora designated him a Daily Prophet correspondent, though his inquisitive face and languid air told plenty. L.O. scowled.

"Bloody journalists," he muttered.

"Sorry?" Mark asked.

"Nothing."

At the bench, Umbridge whispered something fiercely to Thicknesse, who straightened up. "Ahem. The Court meets today on the second trial of Mark Emory Printzen, Muggle, who is accused of stealing a wand." He proceeded to list the rest of the judges and the court scribe (still Agatha Zabini.) "The defendant pleads…"

"Not guilty, your Honor," Mark supplied.

"Not guilty. The previous day's hearing was postponed on account of the accused refusing to testify unless he was given representation by the court. As representation has come forward – in the form of L.F.O., Obliviator, the accused should have no objection to interrogation."

"I have none, sir," Mark said quickly.

"Then," Thicknesse shifted a bit in his seat, attempting to look more important: "How did you come by that wand?"

"I was driving a car, trying to visit a friend of mine before she left to go home to England. It was night; the road was empty, so I was going a little faster than I normally would have. A figure ran out of a building and straight into the road. It was in violation of the Reasonable Person law, I'm sure. I stood on the brakes at once, stopping the car's motion, but I still hit the person. There was a crack like a gunshot –"

"Disapparition," L.O. supplied.

"And the person vanished. But when I got out of the car, I found the wand on the ground."

Umbrige's mouth turned downward. "That sounds very suspicious."

"It's the truth," Mark insisted.

"What was the name of the person that you were attempting to visit?" Smith asked.

Mark took a deep breath. "Her name is Calliope Ollivander."

Suddenly all the stands were ringing, echoing with the same word, the same one-word question: "_Ollivander_? Did he say _Ollivander_?"

Umbridge sniffed. "It certainly explained how he managed to acquire a wand of Ollivander make."

"Yes, it does," L.O. asserted. "Servaas Ollivander – the owner of the wand shop on Diagon Alley –"

"Former owner –" called someone from the stands.

"_Owner_," L.O. continued, his jaw clenched, "is the great-uncle of Calliope Ollivander. It was his practice on the tenth birthday of any of his grand-nieces or nephews to give them a wand as a present. It would not be listed in the sales records, which is why I suspect Hector Gibbs, himself a great-nephew of Servaas Ollivander, is unable to find the wand in the records." He checked the door as he said this, thinking, '_Why hasn't Hector arrived yet?_'

"How," Umbridge asked, drawling her high-pitched voice to a maddening extent, "How is it possible that a witch such as Calliope Ollivander – who, I understand, comes from a _very_ pure family – or mostly so –"

Nobody in the court noticed, but L.O. suddenly glared at Umbridge with undisguised anger.

"—could _possibly_ be acquainted with a Muggle such as yourself?"

"Well," Mark started, or tried to start, "She _was_ in America studying philosophy at Boston University…"

Someone in the stands – someone behind Mark, to his left – laughed outright at that statement. Several of the judges smirked. L.O. sighed.

"I am also acquainted with Calliope Ollivander," he said. "She traveled abroad to study magical theory and enchanted objects at Trimontaine University for Enhanced Magical Studies – but her Muggle friends, of course, would learn a different story."

"Why would a witch from such a good family even _need_ Muggle friends?" Umbridge stroked her chin with a stubby hand, her eyes fixed on Mark.

"Do you want me to relate the story of how we got to know each other?" Mark asked, irritated.

"Why not. I'm sure you've spent a long time preparing it," Umbridge said generously.

Mark's face started to color again. He took a deep breath and said in a controlled voice, "I have a friend whose name is Andrew Bridges. He and I grew up together. I think he's a Muggle- a Muggle-born wizard. He met Calliope before I did. Andrew's always hosting parties and inviting all his friends – that's the sort of person he is – but his parties are always kind of in two parts. Probably wizard and Muggle halves. Calliope was always a member of the other half of one of those parties, but Andrew introduced us anyway. They met at the University. I liked Calliope right away, but she and I didn't talk much. Do you want me to go on?"

"Yes," Umbridge said at once, even as the other judges looked like they'd much rather move on.

"Okay – one day in November Andrew called me up. He said that he'd gotten a call from Scalia – Scalia's another friend of Andrew's, but he and I have never gotten along. A real arrogant guy – probably a wizard, now that I think about it…"

Laughter broke out all over the courtroom. L.O. winced.

"I don't mean to say that he's arrogant and superior because he's a wizard!" Mark said hurriedly, looking all over the stands, "I'm just saying that he's always treated me with contempt, and he would talk to Calliope and Andy but not to me."

"Probably a wizard," L.O. sighed to himself, rubbing his forehead with one hand.

"Yes! Thank you," Mark replied, causing L.O. to wince again. "Now, Andrew said that Scalia said that he was supposed to meet Calliope for dinner, but had bailed at the last minute. Andrew was busy at work, so he called me up because I was the closest to the restaurant. I packed up the things at my office as soon as I can –"

"What do you do for a living?" Eliezar Smith asked with sincere interest.

Mark smiled a bit for the first time since he entered the courtroom. "I'm an elementary school teacher. I've been a TA to a class of first-graders – that's six-year-olds – and my last job was teaching to fourth, fifth, and sixth graders, which are nine to eleven year olds, literature and social studies. Anyway, as soon as I couldI went to the restaurant and found Calliope. She wasn't in a very good mood and said she wasn't hungry. I felt real sorry for her – "

"You felt _sorry_ for her?" Umbridge asked with palpable scorn.

"She'd been stood up! Stood up by a guy who wasn't worth the effort anyway – so I offered to take her to the movies as a compensation."

L.O. turned to look at Mark with a strange expression.

"You took her to the – the cinema?"

"Yes. I wanted to see this film called _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, so I took her there. She really liked it – she acted like she'd never seen a film before – probably hadn't – and a couple of weeks later asked me if we could see it again. After that, that's how we would hang out. I'd look up some old movie, like _Gone With the Wind_, that'd be playing somewhere in Boston – there's some theaters that just play old movies, the classics – and I'd invite her to see it, and then we'd talk about it afterwards. And then I started loaning books to her, and we… we just became friends."

Mark swallowed hard, aware that his face was very pink. The _Daily Prophet_ reporter made a note.

"Were you ever aware," Eliezar Smith asked, "That Miss Ollivander is a witch?"

"No. I never dreamed of it. I thought – she'd told me she'd had a sheltered upbringing, so I accepted that she wouldn't have a wide knowledge of movies or pop culture. And I knew there was a lot going on between her and Andrew and Scalia – a lot that they didn't tell me – but that was okay. I mean, she's my friend. Enough that when I learned she was going, I wanted to say a proper good-bye to her."

"You heard that she was returning to the United Kingdom?"

"Yes. And that's when I accidentally ran into her – and she vanished, and left her wand behind."

"That story sounds quite ridiculous to –"

"Pardon me, your Honors." The door guard interrupted Umbridge. "There's a messenger at the door for Mr. Thicknesse."

"I'll see him right away." Thicknesse stood up. "I declare a five-minute recess for the court. Excuse me, Dolores… I really do wish we'd get this thing settled with, my time is _very_ valuable…" He added in what he clearly thought was an undertone.

The _Daily Prophet_ reporter made another note.

The spectators around the room began to converse amiably. Some of them didn't bother to be quiet on their opinions about "the Muggle." Mark got up from the chair and started to walk towards the door.

L.O. caught up with him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm just taking a turn around the room. Stretching my legs. There's no law against that, is there?"

L.O. answered, evenly, "No, there isn't, that's a good idea. Mind if I join you?"

"Sure, go ahead. I _really_ don't like that woman," he said in a whisper, indicating Umbridge.

"I don't either. Printzen, _why_ did you have to bring up that Scria bloke?"

"You mean Scalia? I'm sorry about that. I didn't exactly think this through, all right? I happened to bring him up because he was important to the story at the time."

"But – 'arrogant attitude – must be a wizard' – are you trying to curse yourself in the foot?"

"Calliope used to say that," Mark mused.

"Look, he probably is a wizard who probably did look down on you, but you didn't have to say that _and_ the comment about him being arrogant!"

"I told you, I didn't think this through, I didn't have time to think it through. _You_ didn't ask me how I met Calliope, I didn't think the issue would come up."

"Well, you didn't have to go into an entire soap opera about it either."

"I was trying to be restrained. I thought it was relevant. Nobody stopped me."

"Was Scalia relevant?"

"Why are you fixating on one statement I made? I thought the rest of it was –"

"Gentlemen?" came a smooth male voice from behind L.O. Both men turned to look. It was the Daily Prophet reporter from the top row, wearing fashionably cut emerald robes and a hat tipped at a jaunty angle. "Lyman Heckinger, of the _Daily Prophet_. Mr. Printzen – am I pronouncing that right? Print-zen?"

"Ah, yes," Mark said uneasily. Lyman Heckinger had stepped right in front of him as though L.O. wasn't even there. The reporter went on, not missing a beat.

"I thought so, Mr. Printzen, while we have a few moments would you care to give me a brief interview? A sketch of your life, perhaps, growing up in Muggle America? Muggle Middle America?"

"I'm not sure you could call where I live Middle America…"

"Well, I'll hash out the headline later, the point is, Mr. Printzen, I'm lookingfor the side of you that won't be read in the court transcript. I'm looking for something to make the readers see you as more than just a name and a crime. One-dimensional. You're better than that, Mr. Printzen. I see a real story here."

Being called "Mister" again had a profound effect on Mark. He straightened up and asked, "Just what sort of scoop are you looking for?"

"Well," Lyman Heckinger tapped his writing pad with his quill, "I do admit that my readers will likely be very curious about the relationship between you and Miss Calliope Ollivander. Is it merely a piquant, pleasing friendship or is there something more?" He arched an eyebrow suggestively.

Mark spluttered, stumbled for words. "Excuse me –"

"Excuse _me_." Suddenly it was L.O. who was standing face-to-face with Lyman Heckinger, and not Mark. L.O. seemed to tower in his grey cloak. "I, as Mark Printzen's consul, request that you and any other members of the press stay away from my client. He has no comment to make at this time."

"But—"

"_No comment_."

Lyman Heckinger scowled. "Does it occur to you, L.O., that not all of the members of the press are mendacious as certain others?"

"I don't believe it and I don't care. I have no comment to make either."

Lyman Heckinger took one step backwards. "Or does it occur to you that nothing that I could quote could possibly be worse than my readers' imagination?"

"What part of _no comment_ don't you understand?"

"Good day, Mr. Printzen," Lyman Heckinger nodded pointedly to Mark, and glared at the Obliviator. He swiveled on his heel and walked away.

"Do you know that guy?" Mark inquired.

"No, why?"

"You acted like you had some kind of personal grudge against him."

"Let's just say I don't hold with members of the press, all right? And I don't want you to be conducting any interviews, either. That's the last thing you need right now."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Say," he looked over L.O.'s shoulder, "Someone over that way is waving to us."

L.O. turned. "That's A.T.!" he said with some surprise. He headed towards her, turned, "Remember, no interviews!"

"I'll remember. Can I meet your friend?"

L.O. glared a bit. "Well, all right, I'll introduce you. But – no, it looks like Thicknesse is still busy – I'd appreciate it if you kept a watch out for Mr. Gibbs."

"Okay… Do you know why he hasn't shown up yet?"

"No, and that's worrying me." They crossed the courtroom together, to L.O.'s friend's evident pleasure. She was a petite young lady with wavy blonde hair and spectacles, wearing a cloak that matched L.O.'s. She greeted him with an enthusiastic "Linus! I'm glad I could make it before the hearing ended."

L.O. tried to make shushing noises with his hands. "A.T.! Please, I'm trying to maintain anonymity here! It's extremely important!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," she said. "I won't do it again. L.O., will you please introduce me to the defendant?"

L.O. gave a sigh.

"I said I was sorry."

"I – all right, I forgive you."

"You can introduce me by my full name."

"Well…"

"Please. I'd like that." She caught Mark's eye and grinned.

"All right. If you insist." He turned to Mark. "Printzen, this is Amity Tweak… Also known as A.T. She's a friend of mine."

"We work in the same department."

"Yes. And Amity – _A.T._, this is Mark Emory Printzen, the defendant."

"Nice to meet ya." Amy offered her hand and Mark shook it, though he seemed a bit distracted.

"I'll, um, leave you to your conversation," Mark said, and then walked away. He took a glass of water and watched the door, but his eyes kept glancing back to L.O. and A.T.

"So how did you get time off today?" L.O. asked.

A.T. leaned her elbows on the bar. "T.R. practically chased me out of the lab after I fixed up another poor Muggle's memory." She went on in a more hushed voice, "I'd swear it was the same Death Eater who's been tampering with memoriesleft and right. Boy, I'd like to sock him in the jaw."

"Amity, don't talk like that…" L.O. said warningly. But he still leaned in and asked, "What was it this time?"

"A man – a Muggle who's the father of two Muggle-born wizard kids. The person responsible – a Death Eater who must know an awful lot about Memory Modification – had taken memories of his kids and placed them in the cerebral cortex. He or she specifically chose the area of the brain tied to fear and to anger. And hatred."

"No," L.O. breathed.

"We showed the man a picture of his kids. He had to be restrained with a Full Body-Bind from trying to tear the picture and attack the person showing it to him. It took me all this morning to remove the memories of his children from the cerebral cortex."

"Oh god. Did you replace them?"

"T.R. insisted that I do that tomorrow. He said he didn't want me to exert myself, nor to cause unnecessary trauma."

"That makes a lot of sense."

"It does, but – grr! I'm _not_ as delicate as T.R. seems to think I am. And does he realize the human mind is a resilient tool? I'd swear he thinks Muggle minds are weaker. If I was allowed to work through one of these cases from beginning to end, without breaks, the whole way through – not handing it off to E.C. or to M.V. at the last minute, as seems to happen all the time, I could learn _so much more_. Already I'm starting to see a pattern, a sort of style. If I can trace that, maybe I can trace it to whoever's committing these acts…"

"That sounds kind of flimsy, A.T."

"It would be worth it, wouldn't it?"

L.O. didn't answer.

"You know it would be."

"Well… thank you for coming here. I appreciate the friendly face."

"Eh, it's nothing. You and the defendant need some solidarity is all."

"We don't need solidarity, what we need is…"

At that moment he was interrupted by something rather important.

Additionally, up to that point Mark had been thinking privately along the lines of, '_Linus? His first name is Linus? Who on earth names a child Linus? It sounds like the kid from Peanuts… But he knows Calliope. He must know her pretty well, from the way he talks about her. She must have mentioned a Linus at some point… Yes, when she was describing… her… family…_'

He stared widely at nothing, then looked at L.O. again, realizing '_L.O._ _Linus Ollivander._' His mind wavered between, '_He's Calliope's _brother_?_' and_ 'Why didn't I realize this before?'_

'_Easy, Printzen,' _he reminded himself. '_You've only known him for a few hours. It's perfectly understandable – they really don't look that much alike – except for the hair, and maybe the – damn, I've got to get a good look at his face now – _' Suddenly his expression changed again. '_Wait a minute. Why didn't he tell _me_ from the start that he's Calliope's brother?_'

That's when the interruption came.

"Court will resume session," Agatha Zabini called from the bar, having finally shooed away Lyman Heckinger. "We are now joined by two new witnesses: Beynon Gladstone, security of the Leaky Cauldron, and Jesse Hamilton, security of the Thames Jail."

Jesse Hamilton had accompanied Mark to and from the courtroom and Sycorax the past three days. Beynon Gladstone and Mark glared at one another from across the courtroom – they remembered each other all too well from the Leaky Cauldron. There was a new piece of evidence accompanying them: a shiny, stiffly new copy of Diane Duane's _So You Want To Be A Wizard_.

The first new witness testified that this book had been found in Mark Printzen's bag, that it had his name written in it, that it looked very suspicious indeed.

Mark Printzen admitted to owning the book, he had bought it with a gift certificate that had been given to him as a present from his students. When asked to summarize it, Mark Printzen explained, with italics, that it was a _fictional_ narrative of two children, young teenagers, who lived in a _fictional_ New York City and were called to take part in a (probably _fictional_) intergalactic battle against evil, where the soldiers for good could be of any race, even aliens, and where they _happened_ to be called wizards.

He was asked if the book offered any explanations of magic, and he described the book's depictions of magic wands, of the Wizard's Oath, of the Speech, and of the Wizard's Ordeal... that questioning wore on.

Jesse Hamilton's further testimony might not have been needed if Hector were there: he was questioned exclusively on the conversation that had ensued between Mr. Gibbs and 'the defendant' shortly before the first trial.

In a slight Cockney accent, the witness told the court that yes, one of the Muggle's first questions had been to ask if Mr. Gibbs was born a wizard. Yes, he seemed to be wondering if it were possible for a Muggle to become a wizard, and then he seemed most interested in knowing what a magic wand was made from… No cross-examination was allowed.

A recess was called for the judges to confer.

While they migrated into the next room, Mark looked warily at all the crowd now lining the walls, and turned to whisper, "_Where's_ the wandmaker?"

L.O. glanced over Mark's shoulder, to Lyman Heckinger, who was rereading his notes, and then at his fellow Obliviator A.T., in the first row.

"The court may have decided that he had nothing more to offer, and so did not invite him back today."

Mark frowned. "I still think he would have come. I'm worried something may have happened to him."

"Don't worry. If it was an emergency we'd—"

"The judges have re-entered," Agatha Zabini called from her corner. L.O. spun around. "That did not take long at all."

Thicknesse excused himself to leave, scurrying through a side door, and Umbridge stepped up in his place, saying smoothly, "Pius Thicknesse regrettably has an urgent appointment, but he has made his will known and approves our decision."

In the chief judge's seat, she leaned over the bar to leer at Mark. A locket with an ornate letter 'S' on it fell from her neck and dangled a little. "The court finds Mark Emory Printzen, self-admitted Muggle, guilty of the crime of Presumption."

A gasp went through the courtroom. Mark turned to look at his consul, who stared at Umbridge as though made of stone. Even Agatha Zabini looked surprised.

Umbridge continued: "Presumption, for the benefit of the entire court, is the name of a crime as old as Wizardry itself: that of a Muggle or Squib stealing magical items such as wands, or information, or even identities of true Pure-blood wizards, with the malicious intent of harnessing their power. This is not only impossible, it is heretical. It's _wrong_."

Mark stuttered, "I – I don't—"

"_Silence_. You admitted to colliding with a witch with your car, a well-known Muggle attempt at murder or serious bodily harm, and then you promptly stole her wand from her. While she was thus incapacitated, you came to England to try and take her place in our society. You either tampered with Mr. Gibbs' evidence or bribed him into saying the wand did not exist in his records. You were obviously planning this for a long time, as evidenced by your possession of the book, '_So You Want To Be A Wizard_.'" (No pen could describe the mockery and condescension that Umbridge put into that title.) "Your plan actually went very well, for a Muggle, until your inability to enter The Leaky Cauldron cost you your freedom."

"I object!" L.O. yelled, standing up. "This is a ridiculous charge! There hasn't been a verdict of Presumption in over –"

"200 years, yes, the court is well aware of that, L.O., now _sit down_."

L.O. slowly sat down.

"We know the name of the witch whose wand he stole, but the Muggle's refusal to testify has wasted too much of the court's time already. We can't waste any more in waiting for an owl to cross the Atlantic and for her to arrive at her own leisure. However, we know enough to convict him. Oh, yes, we know enough."

"What exactly do you know?" Mark demanded, somewhat louder than he had intended.

"You should control your temper," Umbridge said sweetly. The chains around Mark suddenly glowed gold and snaked to clamp at his ankle. Mark's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything else. He clutched the arms of the chair tightly.

"From what you've told us, it is clear that you imposed a relationship on Miss Ollivander. You say you pitied her; in reality you plied her with Muggle books and movies. You seduced her, in short. You lured into a false sense of security and bode your time. When you knew she was supposed to return home, you saw your chance. Disapparition, ha… I wouldn't be surprised if she's sitting now in a Muggle excuse for hospital, recovering from a car injury."

At this point even the court scribe was looking at Umbridge in outright disbelief. However, the other judges nodded in agreement – except for Eliezar Smith, who glared away in disapproval.

"Premeditated assault, attempt of manslaughter… The penalty for Presumption of this degree is five years in Azkaban, at least."

Mark looked to L.O., who seemed to be beyond words. He turned to face Umbridge. "Your verdict –"

"Yes?" she said, as if to a fly that continued to annoy her.

"It – it's a lie!" (gasp from the spectators) "I never presumed to be a wizard! I never knew wizards existed, how could I plan to be one? And as for wanting to know more about magic, who _wouldn't_ leap at the chance?"

"My client is right," L.O. put in. "The court has ascribed motives and deeds to him for which there is no basis in fact!" (In the stands, Lyman Heckinger was scribbling on his pad for dear life: A.T. was on the edge of her seat.)

"Are you finished?" Umbridge asked.

In the pause that followed, she said, "The court's decision, as always, is final. Mark Emory Printzen will report to Azkaban at six p.m. tomorrow. Court dismissed."


	9. On The Run

Chapter Seven – On The Run

_Guilty_.

Behind the Muggle, someone started clapping.

_Guilty_.

Another person joined, and then another, and another. Soon the entire side of the court that could not see the Muggle's face was applauding the verdict.

_Guilty._

After a surprisingly short time, the applause died down.

There was movement all over the courtroom. The spectators drained from the benches. The chain around the Muggle's ankle clinked off of him and retreated away. With due speed, a guard in the uniform of the Sycorax was approaching Mark. In her dove-gray cloak, Linus' colleague, Amy, was descending the stairs towards the floor. The judges left with the dignity of a row of mitered bishops, except for Eliezar Smith, who looked more displeased. Lyman Heckinger was following Agatha Zabini out the door to request a full transcript of the trial as soon as possible. Within a few minutes the room was almost empty.

With the footsteps of the Sycorax guard ringing in his ears, Mark turned to Linus and asked, "What is Azkaban?"

"The proper Wizard prison," Linus was clenching and unclenching his fists. "The prison for dangerous criminals. A place where common law dictates that Muggles _never _go."

A growl of a voice said to Mark, "Come along, now, time's up."

"Excuse me, I am _talking_ to my attorney," Mark shrugged off the insidious hand. He turned to Linus. "Appeals? Can I get an appeals, or take this to –"

"You heard the judge, it's final," the guard gripped Mark's arm. "Now come along."

"I'm _talking_!" Mark snapped.

"Don't you take that tone with me, _Muggle_!"

"Don't talk to me like that!"

"How dare you –"

The guard's wand was out in a flash – just as quick, L.O. and the other Obliviator had their wands out and pointed at the guard.

He looked between the two of them long enough for L.O. to flick his wand: a silver-white flash rang in the air like a gong and dissipated: the guard's eyes went out of focus.

L.O. and Mark looked first at each other, and then at the sandy-haired, petite Obliviator on the stairs.

"We have to find Calliope." Mark stated.

L.O. looked at him "Yes, I'm not going to let you go to Azkaban – but she's not in England. We'd have to cross the entire Atlantic – get to the Keyport –"

"No, we wouldn't. The entire reason I ran into her was because she was going to England. Believe me, she's in England."

"I would know!"

"Maybe you're wrong!"

"Guys?" They looked up. Amy Tweak was giving them both a half-disapproving, half-exasperated look. "You know you've only got a minute or something before that guy regains awareness. I suggest you hightail it out of here and plan on the road."

"What about T.R.?" L.O. asked. "What about my job?"

"What about _me_?" Mark exclaimed.

"I'll make your excuses. You guys had really better get going."

"But –"

"Work fast. Look for Calliope. I'll do some research into Presumption and see if this can't be overturned."

"_Thank_ you!" Mark said with relief. He was starting for the door already.

"But I'm – I'm –"

"Linus, do I have to _push_ you out the door?" Amy ran down the steps to the floor of the courtroom and started to bodily shove him towards the door.

"Okay, I'm going, I'm going!"

"Trust me, okay?" Amy asked. "I'll deal with this guard."

"Wait just a minute. Printzen, come here."

Mark, who was already halfway out the door, turned back to L.O., who was quickly unclasping the cloak from around his neck. "What are you –"

"Hey, good idea," Amy commented. L.O. took the cloak off and settled it over Mark's shoulders, clasping it around his neck.

"What are you doing this for?"

"This cloak," L.O. started, but Amy overrode him, "The cloak's imbued with magic to repel attention and notice. You can walk down the street without people noticing you."

"Oh… good. Can we leave now?"

"_Yes_, we're going already. First, to my place." Linus started for the door so quickly he almost knocked Mark over. Mark followed, then turned when he was at the door.

"Thank you, Amy!" Mark bowed deeply.

L.O. stopped as well. He managed a flustered "Thanks" before he and Mark disappeared from sight.

"The Hog's Head."

"Yes."

"The _Hog's_ Head."

"Yes. Apparently."

"The Hog's…"

"Look, I didn't choose it, all right? And you don't have to come along."

"Dora, I'm not trying to be rude, but you know it does seem the weird place to hold an Auror meeting…"

"Well, it's probably better than the Three Broomsticks. Who knows, maybe the fact that it's a weird place means it'll be less susceptible. Besides, it's a meeting of Aurors, we'll be able to take care of ourselves."

Calliope tossed her scarf over her shoulder. "As you say."

"Mm-hm." Dora held the door of the Hog's Head open for Calliope. The light was shadowy and greasy (courtesy of the few lamps suspended from the ceiling). Dora headed for the rickety staircase leading upstairs.

"I'll be down in about an hour, maybe more," she told Calliope. "Feel free to go wandering."

"All right." Calliope watched Dora go upstairs, then sat at the bar between two patrons and ordered a glass of pumpkin juice mixed with club soda, "On ice." The bartender looked at her strangely, but shrugged his shoulders and started rummaging behind the bar. Calliope took out the much battered and folded napkin that still had the triangle-circle-line on it. The symbol of Grindelwald. She studied it, but could not find any meaning whatsoever in it…

"One Pumpkin Coach, _on ice_," the bartender set in front of her, placing particular emphasis on the last two words.

"Thank you," Calliope said graciously and sipped at the drink, setting the napkin down at the bar. The pub around her was silent.

"Excuse me, miss," said a light, dreamy voice to her right-hand side, "But is that the sign of the Deathly Hallows you are studying?"

Calliope turned, surprised. The young blonde – couldn't be more than fifteen, _maybe_ – was smiling at her with a rather vague but pleasant expression. She wore large earrings made of a careful string of multicolored buttons. Her very wide, pale blue eyes looked between Calliope to the napkin on the bar.

"The Deathly Hallows? The relics of the Peverell brothers?" Calliope had studied magical objects at Trimontaine University and heard something of the so-called Deathly Hallows. What she had gathered from her studies on those items was that the reports of their power were greatly exaggerated – probably.

"Absolutely." The girl nodded. Calliope glanced behind her at the bar, where no one was talking to anyone they didn't know, and all conversations were in hushed voices.

"I've… Miss, I've studied the Deathly Hallows. I don't think I've ever seen this symbol in connection with them. I've only seen it connection with Grindelwald."

"I know. Lots of people don't know that it has a connection outside of him. But they learn. When I was a first-year, my daddy got me a necklace with that sign on it."

"_What?_" Calliope tried to keep her voice low.

"It meant a lot to him, so I wore it my first day of class. However, it wasn't received well." She stirred her drink (which, Calliope noticed, was lightly green with a small onion) and went on casually, "Older students kept coming up to me and asking me why I wanted to kill Muggles. Then there was the fifth-year Slytherin who took me aside after lunch and asked me how long I had been a believer and would I be interested in subscribing to his magazine for pure-blood supremacists. After that, Professor McGonagall told me to take the necklace off. So I stopped wearing it. I prefer to make my own jewelry anyway – but I don't let Daddy know that. It is rather important to him."

Calliope stared. "… All right," she said slowly, taking another drink. "But how does this symbol relate to the Deathly Hallows?"

"It's amazing, how illustrations get more and more stylized as time goes on until things that seem meaningless… but are in fact loaded with history and myth." the girl asked with another dreamy smile. "Like the ankh. It was associated with the goddess of life and of death among the Egyptians… the Greeks took it, changed it a little, gave it to their goddess of fertility and love… and now we use the sign to denote the planet Venus in Astronomy class, just as casual shorthand."

Calliope thought. "The symbol of Venus is not identical to the ankh."

"True. But one does derive from the other."

Calliope took a sip. "It's interesting, certainly. I can see your point. But _this_ symbol…"

"It's a very simple symbol. May I?" the girl took the napkin and traced the bisecting line with her finger. "The Elder Wand." The circle, "The Resurrection Stone." Lastly, the triangle, "And the Cloak of Perfect Invisibility."

"Really."

"Yes. Really." The girl looked at it for a while, then said, "I'm Luna Lovegood, by the way." She held out her hand.

Calliope hesitated for an instant, then shook it. "Calliope Ollivander."

"Oh." Luna tilted her head a bit to the side. "You must be related to Mr. Ollivander, the vanished shopkeeper."

Somehow the way she'd said it made it sound as though Uncle Servaas had merely skipped off to the Caribbean without telling anyone. Calliope swallowed and said, "Yes. I'm his grand-niece."

"I was extremely sorry to hear he was captured. Daddy's prepared an editorial on it already – very respectful, I assure you. Mr. Ollivander was ever so kind to me when I bought my wand."

"Where is your father now?" Calliope asked, wondering who would let a girl of this age sit in a place like this.

"He's upstairs conducting an interview… investigating a lead that could expose Rufus Scrimgeour's black-market deals. It's Dad's job to know and tell the world."

"What does your father do for a living?"

"He writes for _The Quibbler_. He's the editor. Perhaps you've read it?"

"Er… I've spent the last three years in America. I'm not in touch with the British papers right now."

"Oh. That's why you ordered ice in your drink."

"What?" Calliope glanced at her Pumpkin Coach, now half-finished. "Oh. Yes. Americans always put ice in their drinks. I got used to it. But, should your father have left you alone up here?"

"I'm not alone anymore, am I? You're talking to me." Luna took a sip of her drink. "Besides, I like the Hog's Head. It brings back good memories." She smiled again. Then, suddenly, "Would you care to give an interview?"

"What?"

"An interview about your Uncle's disappearance. No one else from the Ollivander family has stepped forward. You would be the first. A Quibbler exclusive. You'd be following in Harry Potter's footsteps."

Calliope started with recognition. "Oh! _The Quibbler_! I have read it! My brother mailed me a copy when Harry Potter ran that interview back in May." She took a gulp from her drink at once so that Luna might not ask what _else_ she thought of the magazine.

"Wonderful. So you see, we've got a very prestigious tradition, Why not give us an interview?"

Calliope stared at her. "About the disappearance of my great-uncle?"

"Oh, yes. Why do you think he was captured… is the government doing enough to rescue him…"

"No," Calliope said icily, "I do not want to give an interview. If no one else from my family has stepped forward, I will not be the first."

"Okay." Luna sucked her cocktail onion off of its stirrer and then chewed it with relish. The anger which Calliope expected did not come. "I'm looking forward to going back to school."

"I expect you are. What year are you going to be?"

"Fifth year. My last year ended rather calamitously, so I'm looking forward to a continuation of that excitement."

"What House are you?"

"Proud Ravenclaw."

"I thought so," Calliope nodded. "So was I. We were the only house that always looked forward to going back to school."

"The future is 'an unlocked mystery' to us," Luna quoted.

"I think I remember hearing the Sorting Hat sing that."

"I wonder if the Sorting Hat would accept suggestions from students for the song next year…"

Calliope suppressed a smile. "I'm fancy that the Hat is rather proud of its songs, and wouldn't like a student imposing on its territory."

"It should learn to be more flexible, then. Hats are supposed to be flexible."

"It depends on the kind of hat…"

"Do you think the Diadem of Ravenclaw would have been flexible?"

"Er… no. It was a diadem. That's another word for a crown. At its flimsiest it was probably made from wrought silver."

"Silver? You think it was silver, then?"

"Well, I don't know…"

"Daddy's trying to recreate the Diadem, you know."

"… Is he now?"

"Oh yes. He's been gathering materials for some years now. At this point it resembles a turban more than anything else, but the Persian and Arab worlds have also contributed much to magical lore, so I think a turban will serve as well as a diadem. Better, perhaps. It goes with more outfits than a diadem."

Calliope drained the last of her Pumpkin Coach. "I don't wear diadems or turbans very often. I couldn't say."

"Diadems are so _formal_," Luna went on. "The twinkles add so much formality, you know."

"Jewels do add a sheen of formality to any outfit," Calliope agreed.

They continued to converse for a while, the topic shifting gradually from jewels to birth months and birthdays, to the difference between Hogwarts when Calliope had attended it and now. After their comparison of Christmases at Hogwarts to Christmases at home, their conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence. Calliope took another Pumpkin Coach and Luna requested another Lite Absinthe with Onion.

"So, Miss Lovegood, what's your family life? Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No – it's just me and Daddy. My mother died about… my, it must be six years back by now."

"Oh," Calliope said at once. "I'm very sorry." Luna shrugged. Calliope went on, "I lost my own mother a few years ago, too."

"We had nine good years," Luna said quietly. "It was an accident. I still feel sad about it sometimes, but I know she's not gone forever."

Calliope nodded slowly and was aware of herself saying "yes" very slowly. "We knew for a long time that my mother was dying, we just didn't know when," she explained quietly. "It was almost a relief afterwards. Almost. But I was at least out of Hogwarts when it happened…"

"Like I said, we had nine good years. Tell me about your family."

After an hour, Dora came down the stairs after the rest of the Aurors. The stairs creaked with every step. She looked for Calliope at the bar and found her deep in conversation with a young lady with long blonde hair. Dora approached them quietly. "Callie?"

Both Calliope and her new friend turned. Dora recognized Luna Lovegood and nodded to her. Then she turned to Calliope, who said, "I guess the meeting's over?"

"Yeah."

"Hello, Miss Tonks," Luna said politely.

"You know each other?"

"We've met." Dora offered a small smile to Luna. "I think we'd better get going. It'll be late soon." To Luna, "Are you going to be all right?"

"I'm sure. My father will be finishing up with his client soon. His interviews usually don't last longer than this."

"All right – do you want us to stay with you until he arrives?"

"Oh, I can amuse myself very well until then. But if you like, you can stay."

The stairs behind Dora creaked again. She turned to see a man in orange and blue robes descending the stairway. He had thin, white hair that hung disheveled about his face, and he was humming to himself.

"Ah, that's Dad now."

"All right… it was very nice to meet you, Luna." Calliope offered her hand, and Luna shook it.

"I agree. Can we be penfriends?"

Calliope gave a little shrug. "Sure. Why not?"

"I'll write you when I get back to school." Luna smiled brightly.

"Until then – take care."

"I will."

When they left the Hog's Head, Calliope asked Dora in an undertone, "How have you met her?"

"You'd be surprised who I run into in my line of work,"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously – you remember how last May Harry Potter invaded the Ministry of Magic and the Department of Mysteries?"

"Remember? Linus' letter from that week was obscenely long."

"Harry wasn't alone. He had five friends of his, fellow-students."

"I remember that, but I only remember two of them were Weasleys."

"Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley – that's the two – and Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood."

"That girl was at the Department of Mysteries?"

"Yes – apparently put up a pretty good fight. Not that I was paying a lot of attention."

"I'm hardly surprised…"

"Bellatrix Lestrange knocked me out while I was dueling her."

Calliope stopped in her tracks. "You dueled Bellatrix Lestrange?" she whispered.

Dora nodded. "You'd be surprised."

"And she let you live?"

"She got distracted, all right? Can we not talk about it out here?"

"Okay… I'm sorry. But I'm surprised."

Dora kept walking in silence. Calliope knotted her scarf around her neck and wondered if she had said too much. But eventually Dora said, "Dumbledore was at the Auror's meeting."

"He was?"

"Yes. He told us all that he had the utmost faith in us, and that the lives of hundreds of innocent schoolchildren depend on us, but that he believed we would fulfill our tasks admirably and honorably."

"How nice."

"I got a feeling that if any one of us betrayed that trust, that we would have to deal with him _personally_."

"… _Oh_."

"I think everyone got a little scared of him at that moment. But I wouldn't expect anything less. _I_ would deal with any traitor decisively, you could rely on that."

"I noticed that you stayed behind a little after the others came downstairs."

"I… he wanted to talk to me, and I wanted to talk to him."

"And you did?"

"Yes."

"What about?"

"That I'm not going to tell you. Not now. But, Calliope…" They arrived at their flat. Dora stood in front of the door so that Calliope had to look at her, "I'd like to know: Can you cast a corporeal Patronus?"

Calliope was a bit surprised. "No."

Dora gave a nod and opened the door. "After lunch, you're coming with me on my watch. I'm going to teach you."

"Don't make eye contact, whatever you do, don't make eye contact," Linus steered Mark, who looked obediently at passing feet, through the uncluttered Atrium. It was three o' clock in the afternoon.

Linus stepped into a Floo fireplace, then stopped, and looked at Mark, frowned. "We're taking the Knight Bus," he said.

"Good," Mark winced. "Not that apparition stuff. That's just _weird_."

At his words, Linus shook his head again. "Best idea. We will Apparate. It's close enough… I can manage a side-along for now…"

Mark knew better than to protest. He only muttered, "It's not even like tessering…" and then Linus changed his mind again. He pointed to the fireplace. "No, we can't be seen on the street. Into the fire, go!"

Mark stepped in, uncertain.

"Gather yourself as compact as you can," Linus was reaching for the button beside the door, "and yell, 'Zenith Apartments.' You can remember that?"

"Sure…"

"And _enunciate. _I'm going to press the button in three, two, say it!"

Mark shut his eyes tight and yelled for Zenith Apartments. When the flames that enveloped him had cleared away, Linus stepped in after.

When he stepped out, into the cool green lobby of the Zenith, he almost tripped over Mark, who was coughing and dusty on the floor.

"C'mon up, lad, don't make a scene," Linus yanked his arm. "You're lucky the Zenith has such a distinct name… you are okay, right?"

"Why can't we get a magic carpet?" Mark replied sullenly.

"Because they're illegal in Britain and a damn trick to fly right."

"You've _flown_ one?"

"Inherited one from a Moroccan uncle. It's in Scotland, though, so don't get any ideas."

"Where are we anyway?"

"Zenith Apartments," Linus explained, and if he had been less refined, Mark was sure he would have added '_Duh_.' "It's where I live."

"Oh."

"Hurry, we don't have much time… lucky the concierge is off-duty… _Accio!" _He said, pointing his wand towards the desk. A laminated visitor's badge flew towards him. He caught it in his other hand and offered it to Mark. "Here, pin this on, it'll protect you from the security around here."

Mark took the badge. It read "Muggle" in large red letters, much as if, to Mark's mind, it meant "Leper." He followed Linus to the old-fashioned, iron wrought elevator.

"Now listen to me, 'cause I only want to say this once," L.O. took a deep breath. "From now on, neither you nor I – especially not you – should say the name of the Thames Jail or even the Sycorax."

"Why?"

"Because there's a charm on the name that will activate if you speak it. It'll let the security know where you are at once and they'll ambush."

"Even if I'm a Muggle?"

"No matter –" L.O. paused. "I'm pretty sure the spell is geared to the word spoken, not to who speaks it. But the point is, even if there's the slightest chance –"

"Okay, okay, I get it, I won't say a thing." Mark fidgeted with the edge of the cloak. The words _Azkaban_ and _Sycorax_ would not leave his head, and it was making him rather queasy. "So where are you thinking of going?"

"Scotland. Hollywyck is my ancestral home. Its doors will always be open to me, and I can activate spells on it – defense spells."

"Will Calliope be there?"

"If Calliope's anywhere in Britain… I don't know. She might be there, or maybe staying with Dora, but I don't know where she's staying nowadays. As soon as possible we'll find her and have her… But for now, Hollywyck is where we're headed."

The doors opened and Linus strode down the hallway to his room, opening it with a flick of his wand. "There we go." He stood outside and checked to see that no one saw Mark entering, then shut the door after him.

"How are we going to get to Scotland? Broomsticks?"

"_No_, we're not going to use broomsticks, don't be ridiculous. Please step back." L.O. stepped past Mark and into his bedroom – which was small, but neat. "How did they transport you to the hearing?"

Mark followed him to the room. L.O. levitated a briefcase onto his bed and started sorting various items of clothing into it. "They used cars – magical cars, I think – to take me from the Th—"

"_Ssh!_" L.O. shot him a warning look.

Mark clamped his mouth shut, then dutifully responded with, "From Point A to Point B." When L.O. relaxed and resumed "packing," though Mark could hardly bring himself to call it that, Mark added defiantly, "I'm not stupid, you know." He thought about confronting L.O. with the fact that he knew who he was, but decided he'd better be cooperative at this point in time.

"I'll just hang around here, then." He stepped back into the living room, and noticed that a table near the bedroom door was absolutely covered in framed photographs. Mark stepped closer to it, trying to study each photograph without touching a single one.

The first photograph that caught his eye was one of Calliope – it looked like it had been taken a couple of years ago. She was standing in front of an ivy-colored gate reading '_Trimontaine University_' and waving. Mark blinked. He looked again. _All_ of the photographs were moving, their inhabitants smiling or preening in a miniature world all their own.

He smiled at all of them. "Magic," he said to himself.

The next photo that caught his eye was of an overstuffed chair with three children in it. A tiny baby swathed in pink squirmed in the lap of a black-haired boy of about five. Cradling the boy was a smiling girl in her late teens, black-haired and long-legged. They were all smiling (except for the baby) and full of life. The faded color and the girl's clothes looked like the picture had been taken in the seventies.

The next photograph was of an organized group, all wearing the same kind of cloak that Mark was wearing now. He recognized a younger Linus (minus the goatee) and Amy Tweak. There were a few photographs featuring a large, stone castle in the background; one photo of a large, beautiful Tudor-style house. There were two pictures close to each other in the back: One was a rather somber portrait of the same teenaged girl who was in the same photo as the baby and the five-year-old. Next to it was a crinkled photograph of L.O., in his mid-teens, with his hands on the shoulders of a petite girl with short black hair and gray eyes that matched his. She was pointing delightedly at a badge with the letter 'R' on her chest. Brother and sister were smiling like jack-o-lanterns, luminous. Written on the photograph in black ink were the words, "_Mum, Dad, Guess where Callie got Sorted!_'

There was a knock at the door. Mark started up. L.O. came out of his room at once, his wand out. "Printzen…" he said in a low voice.

Mark knew what he meant, and in a minute L.O. was in front of the door and Mark was crouched in the bedroom.

"Who is it?" L.O. asked.

"It's me, Hector. Open up."

"_Hector_?" L.O. repeated.

"Yes. Hector. Your cousin. My wand is beech, with a core of a unicorn hair, and bendy. Linus…?"

"Ten and a half inches, walnut, dragon heartstring." He opened the door. "Hector, you really gave me a fright there."

Hector came in hurriedly. "What was the verdict?"

"Why weren't you at the trial?"

"I couldn't find a record of the wand anywhere. Linus, I looked in the archives of a hundred years back, and – why are you looking at me like that? Seriously, stop it, you're scaring me."

"Hector – Irving – Gibbs – the second," L.O. said, pausing to give each name emphasis, "There are four wands _at least_ that are active today that have not been in any registry of sales. Those wands belong to you, your sister Tess, to me, and to my sister, Calliope. And there was one given to my sister Benedicte, but it's not active anymore."

A light dawned on Hector's face. "_Ooohhh_…"

"And by the way," Mark opened the bedroom door, "Thanks for telling me that you're Calliope's brother. I really appreciated that show of trust once I worked it out for myself."

Hector jumped. "What are _you_ doing here? Why aren't you at the -"

"Don't say it!" Mark warned. Hector shut up right away. "The verdict was guilty. I'm judged guilty of Presumption."

"Presumption? Like Presumption and Despair? But those haven't been actual crimes for…"

"Apparently they _are_." Linus turned to Mark. "How did you work out that Calliope and I are –"

"Brother and sister? Well, your conversation right now helped, but so did the fact that I'm her friend too, so she's told me about her family, including her older brother Linus. And you have the same last initial as she does."

"You were found guilty of Presumption?" Hector asked again.

"Yes. May I remind you, Linus Ollivander, I'm not stupid."

"I had every right to maintain anonymity with you."

"But there hasn't been a verdict of Presumption in over a hundred years…"

"Two hundred. My department specifically vetoes…"

"Look, anonymity is one thing, but when she's your _sister_, I thought that you could perhaps trust me enough to tell me _that_, and not keep me in the dark about it!"

"What does it matter to you?"

"Because Calliope is my friend and I don't appreciate having been deceived, even if it's only by omission! I'm supposed to be able to _trust_ you."

"Trust is negotiable with Obliviators."

"What's an Obliviator? I don't even know what that is! You haven't told me _anything_!"

"All right, fine, yes! I'm Calliope Ollivander's brother. My name is Linus Fortitude Ollivander. I modify the memories of Muggles just like you for a living. My mother was Philomel Ollivander and my father was Modeste Samara. I'm five years older than Calliope is. I had a sister who was twelve years older than me, but she was murdered when I was seven. Her name was Benedicte Clemence Ollivander. _Are you happy now_?"

There was a very long pause. Mark dropped his gaze to the floor. Hector looked between the two of them and finally asked, "So Presumption is still an actual crime?"

"Printzen has been –"

"You can call me Mark." He said evenly. "You're Calliope's brother, after all."

"… Okay, then, you can call me Linus." Another pause. "And Mark has been sentenced to Azkaban."

"_No_. No way. That just – they can't do that!" Hector looked from one to the other.

"That's why we're on the run right now. Or getting ready for it," Mark said.

Linus nodded soberly. "A colleague of mine has promised to look into the case for me – see if the court's decision can be overturned."

"If we can get a _fair_ trial next time," Mark growled.

"Hey," Linus warned, "This court was mistaken, not necessarily malicious – except maybe Umbridge."

Mark turned to Linus. "You heard them say –"

"I'd just prefer that this was an aberration to a deliberate infarction of justice. That's all."

"'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,'" Mark quoted.

"Fortunately, this is England," Hector said kindly.

A pause followed. Mark turned away from Hector and appeared to be overcome by a cough.

"We're going to look for Calliope," Linus cut in. "And we're on our way."

"Well, I'll tell you something, if I may." Hector glanced at Linus as if for approval before going on. "I was not invited to the courtroom today. When I came I was told that I was not authorized even to watch. Me, the expert witness! They _did,_ however, let me leave yesterday with the prime exhibit in my possession…"

Mark's hazel eyes and Linus' gray eyes both widened. "You mean –"

"You have Calliope's wand?" Mark finished delightedly.

"There's an immense fine for that, you know!" Linus admonished.

Hector smiled a bit. "I'm siding more with Mark, I don't think the court is to be trusted."

Linus scowled. Mark went on, "So what have you done with it? Is it with you?"

"Good heavens, no. I took it home, cleaned it, fixed it up…"

'You _cleaned _it?" Mark exclaimed.

Hector looked affrighted, shrank back a little. "Well, yes."

"You mean you got rid of the blood?"

Hector nodded.

"How will anyone know whose blood that _is_?"

Both Hector and Linus looked at him askance now. "That's impossible." Linus said.

"No, it's not! Muggles do it all the time! You mean to say you can't identify blood?"

"_No_," Linus said emphatically.

Mark made a noise like, "Hch! No flying carpets, no _DNA_ _testing_…"

"Will you forget the flying carpet?"

"Er… excuse me?" Hector insisted weakly.

"Oh. Hello. Go on." Mark said.

Hector nodded to Linus. "In Uncle's stores, I found a linden wand of ten and three-quarter inches, and I am going to send that one back to the court. The real one I'm going to hang on to, unless you want it?"

"No, no," Linus shook his head. "No, the last thing we need is pilfered evidence to convict us further."

"Well, if you find Calliope, give me her address. I don't think the court will treat this case properly, and I heard of a disputed wand in a case where even when the owner was known he never got the wand back for fifteen years!"

"Well, that – I, I guess that's the better course of action," Linus had to admit. "Is that all you had to say?"

"How 'bout you come with us?" Mark offered.

Hector shook his head. "I'd only weigh you down. Besides, I have work to finish up in the shop. Our uncle –" he trailed off.

"By the way, what _did_ ever become of your uncle?"

Mark looked from Hector to Linus. Linus glared at hi, until finally, Hector put in, "We don't know." He stood up. "I told some buddies of mine I'd meet them at the pub to listen to the game on the Wireless – Arrows vs. Wasps, you know – I'd better be off. Good luck to you." He shook Linus' hand. "Cous, you take care. And you –" he took Mark's hand and shook it warmly. "Glad I met you. You seem like a nice fellow and I hope you turn out all right."

Mark smiled. "Thanks. Good luck to you too."

With a last nod to them both, Hector took his broomstick, perched on the sill, and then with a hop, he was gone. Mark watched him soar out and then enchant his appearance so he was little more than a smear on the air.

"Don't get any ideas," Linus warned. "I'm almost done packing."

When he returned to his bedroom, Mark turned to the table of pictures. Quickly and quietly, he took three photographs out of their frame and into his pocket: the picture of Calliope in front of Trimontaine University, the picture of fifteen-year-old Linus and eleven-year-old Calliope, and the photograph of the teen girl with the toddler and the baby on her lap.

Linus yelled from the bedroom, making him jump, "What's DNA anyway?"

"I'll tell you on the way over!"

"Okay," Linus repeated. "Okay, okay, okay."

He must have repeated the word at least a dozen times since they stepped out of his apartment. In the elevator downstairs and through the lobby, that was the only thing he would say: "Okay… okay. _Okay_."

"Are you… all right?" Mark asked.

"I'm just working out our plan in my head."

"_Our_ plan—?"

"It's going to be fine. I know exactly where we'll go. We have…" he checked his watch, "Less than ten minutes to make it there…"

"Where?"

"King's Cross Station."

"Oh." They stepped outside the lobby. Mark looked around. "Do you have a car?"

"No, I don't have a car, this would take forever by car…"

"How are we…"

"Just take my arm."

"What?"

"Take my arm. Hold tight."

"Er…"

"And be quiet. I need to concentrate."

Uncertain, Mark slipped his arm under Linus'.

"Okay. I'm going to turn counterclockwise in three… two…"

Outside of a side entrance to King's Cross Station, there was a _pop_ and two men appeared out of thin air.

"There," said one of them, a taller man with a black goatee, who looked around at once, straightening his spectacles.

The second man, whose light brown hair was in some disarray, veered off from the other man at once and grabbed the sidewalk railing at once as though dizzy.

"What in holy hell was _that_?" he asked.

"It was Apparition. Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine, I just – I was expecting a blur of color, a speeding sensation, a tesseract – not _that_."

"I'm sorry," Linus put a hand on Mark's back, "But that was the fastest way to get here. We wizards are so used to it – I didn't think you'd be so badly affected."

"I'm fine." Mark stood on his own two feet, but he was still a bit unsteady. "I'm _fine_." He held up a hand against Linus' further ministrations.

"Okay. Now, we've got to hurry and get inside…"

"Just where are we going?"

"Platform Nine and Three-Quarters."

"Nine and _what_?"

"Nine and Three-Quarters – the Hogwarts Express. It's the largest wizarding train in Britain, and it goes non-stop straight to Hogsmeade, in Scotland. However, it only departs twice a day, and its evening run is starting _very_ soon. We're going to have to –"

"Run?"

"No. Just walk quickly."

Mark followed his lead. He looked behind him and asked, "So, is there a platform 3.14, or Twenty-two over Seven?"

"Don't ask _me_," Linus said. "I never take the trains." He took long, quick strides and outpaced Mark easily.

"I'm going to guess that this is between Platforms Nine and Ten?" Mark called.

"It'll take us a while to buy tickets – and they've upped security everywhere, that'll cut time short too – there it is, hurry!"

Mark's steps started to slow. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I'm positive! This is the plan we're following."

"I don't know…" Mark looked around furiously for the platform. "Can I not see it?"

"No, you can't. But it's right here." Linus stopped in front of the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. "Take my arm."

"I'm _really_ not sure about this… I really don't want to go further… I think it's a trap!"

The word 'trap' stopped him, but Linus gave it a bit of thought and then said confidently, "It's going to be fine, you're wearing the Stone Cloak. There's no way they could have tracked us here, but we _have_ to go before they have any idea. Come on." The wizard had started walking towards the barrier, but the Muggle was getting more reluctant by the minute.

"I don't…"

"Let's _go_!" Linus tugged Mark furiously.

The platform was now only ten steps away… nine… they would be in Hollywyck by evening… six… ('_Why won't he be more cooperative?_' Linus asked himself)… not many now… four… was someone approaching? … Mark _finally _seemed to be relaxing… but at once Linus knew something was very wrong.

"Mark?" Linus turned. Mark's grip on his arm was loosening, and he was fast blacking out. He fell to the floor. "Ah – Mark! Mark! Pull yourself together!" There was no response.

Linus looked around quickly and pulled out his wand. "_Ennervate!_" he said under his breath, wand to Mark's temple.

Mark stirred and his eyelids opened slowly. "Ah… vertigo…" he squeezed them shut again.

Linus swore under his breath. He drew his wand up again, looked around, and whispered, "_Finite Incantetum_!" Mark only flickered out of consciousness again. Linus' wand faltered, but then he pointed it at the clasp of the Stone Cloak. It came undone at once. He pulled the cloak away from Mark's windpipe – and then paused.

"Of course."

A few minutes later, a security guard at King's Cross Station became aware of a commotion between Platform Nine and Platform Ten. It looked like a man had passed out. He ran over at once, the setting sun casting his shadow long over the ground.

"Is there a problem, sir?" He asked automatically of the black-haired man who was stuffing a grey material into his bag.

"My – my friend here just fainted. I'm not sure if I should move him or not – "

"Do you know the cause of the faint, sir?"

"Yes – it's – um – anemia."

"Anemia?"

"Yes. Can we get him out of the way of traffic…?"

"Of course – take his feet." The two men carried Mark to a bench in front of Platform Ten.

Linus took a deep breath as he saw Mark's hand stir. "Thank you very much, sir."

"Not a problem – anything I have to do to help his anemia? Get him some food or something?"

"No, no, I just need to wake him up and give him his medicine – he'll be fine."

"Medicine? We do have a first aid station in the…"

"No, no, that won't be necessary. See, he's waking up already!"

"Is this Platform 9 ¾?" Mark mumbled, trying to sit up dazedly. The guard gave Linus a skeptical look.

"Are you _sure_, sir, that your friend here will be all right? Didn't hit his head or anything?"

"Yes, I'm sure, thank you for your attention but I can take it from here."

"Because I can call an ambulance if there's been any danger of concussion…"

Linus carefully drew his wand out from his pocket, saying slowly, "He… is going… to be _fine_."

The guard opened his mouth to protest, but paused. His eyes unfocused on Linus and he stood up a little straighter, slurring "All right then, sir, as you were." He turned on his heel and walked away, back to his original post. Linus lowered his wand.

"Hello? L.O.?"

Linus turned to Mark. "How are you feeling?"

"Um…" Mark gave up trying to sit up. "… Awful… jelly-like… dazed… bad? What happened?"

"You fainted. Right before we managed to get to the platform."

"Oh. Has the train already…"

"Yes."

"Why did I faint?"

Linus frowned and suddenly found he couldn't meet Mark's eyes. "I'm very sorry. I made two unforgivable mistakes. Well, one." When Mark didn't inquire, he went on, "I forgot you were a Muggle."

"Oh. Cool."

Linus snapped his head around. "What do you mean, _cool_?"

Mark sat up, with more success this time. "Well, I'm glad _someone_ could forget I was a Muggle." He gave a short laugh. "I mean, I've been having trouble with it myself."

"Er…" Linus swallowed. "I mean I forgot what you would be able to do and not do. I forgot that Platform Nine and Three-Quarters is imbued with a powerful Muggle Repellant Charm."

"Muggles faint when we go near it? Wouldn't that be noticeable?"

"No, they don't faint when they go near it… not usually. It wasn't just that. I gave you my cloak – a Stone Cloak is imbued with… well, it's got a lot of spells in it. Spells that are woven or sewn right into the fabric. Spells to repel attention are the most pervasive… but there is a faint Muggle Repellant Charm on that too. I'm… it's not that strong, but you've been wearing it for a while now and in combination with the strong charm on the platform… I mean, I'm amazed you've lasted this long…"

"You wrapped me in a cloak with _Muggle Repellant_ sewn into it?" Mark exclaimed.

"Not so loud…"

"What is wrong with you?"

"I've gotten so used to that cloak I've forgotten what's in it – I was trying to protect you. I'm not used to dealing with Muggles except in a professional basis – and I forgot you were a Muggle. I'm sorry. I'm sorrier than I can tell you."

Mark did not let up his glare. Linus sighed. "Look, things are terribly messed up now, and it's all my fault. I don't have any idea where to go from here, we missed the Hogwarts Express, and not to mention Calliope's going to hex me when she realizes what I did to you. I'm so sorry."

Mark relaxed a bit at that. "Okay… well, everyone makes mistakes. It's okay. But now we have to… hm…" He sat up completely and swung his legs over the side of the bench. "Could we get some coffee, do you think?"

"Um… sure. I think I saw a shop right over there…"

"Let's go there. My head's much clearer now anyway…"

"Can you walk?"

"Yes, I'm much better. So wait a minute… you were going to have us take a magical train?"

"Yes. The largest magical train in Britain."

"A train that belongs to the government that's trying to hunt us down?"

"Ah… um… it belongs to Hogwarts, which is… well…"

"Belongs to the _world_ which we are trying to escape. The world of wizards."

"We're not trying to escape it so much as…"

"I can't believe I didn't realize it before… probably that stupid cloak… I forgive you, by the way, but I'm never touching that cloak again."

"… Understandable."

"It's utterly counter-intuitive to take a magical train if we're escaping the magical police. _You're_ a wizard. Would it ever occur to you to use Muggle trains?"

"Well, no. They're scattered everywhere, they have a million stops, they break down or crash all the time…"

"Exactly." Mark's eyes were bright now. "You're a wizard – they'd expect you to use magic. You never even thought of a train other than the nine and three-quarters one. I bet you _they_ won't either. They'll expect you to use magic to save you and me – because they think I'm stupid, I can't take care of myself at all, and anyway Muggle trains are unreliable. But, that's their mistake. I'm not stupid. Now, we won't talk about this for a bit. Let me do the planning this time, okay?"

"Er, I…"

"What kind of coffee do you want? Or tea? I guess that's more your thing?"

Linus ended up ordering tea; Mark had coffee with cream. They drank in silence, both of them looking all over the station for any cloaked or suspicious figures. When he finished, Mark stood up.

"I have some ideas. Follow me." He went first to the man behind the counter. "Sir, can you tell me where I might find an ATM?"


	10. Nightfall

Chapter Eight – Nightfall

Turpentine was home early that day, and immediately set up shop in the basement where he kept Servaas Ollivander. He shuttered the high windows, lit a lamp, and set up an ancient, ornate little music box.

Servaas ventured to ask, "What brings you home so early?"

Turpentine gave a little smile. "Today is the first day of my experiment. I need a lot of time to set it up… and I want to do it _right_." He opened up the music box, which began to play a slow, sad tune. He took the marble slab with the carved triangles on it off of its stand. He laid it in a large tub with a soft green potion that gave a slightly bitter smell. He left it soaking and went upstairs. He returned, levitating a large case carefully in front of him. He set it on the floor and opened it, levitating out three – six – nine glass potion bottles, all, save one, glowing from within with some silvery-white substance.

"Over a year's worth of collecting," he said aloud. Servaas wasn't sure if the monologue was directed to him, if Turpentine was speaking to himself, or for posterity's sake. "Three year's worth of planning. A lifetime of learning. Only one key left."

He turned to Servaas and held up his wand again. "Sir, I must rely on your generosity yet once more…"

The sun was setting over the mountains around Hogwarts. Dora Tonks was patrolling the Hogwarts perimeter with Calliope Ollivander beside her. Periodically the two would break apart and Dora would go some paces ahead, calling to the taller woman, "Now remember! A happy memory, or a happy thought. Focus on it, now!"

Calliope, black hair tied back , gripped the plum wand and focused her mind on the day that she had won a Quidditch match. She, the shy, too-tall Calliope, to whom flight was only a way to spend a half-hour in fun, had stepped up to her duty as a reserve Seeker and donned the Quidditch uniform. It had been a rainy, early spring day that would occasionally clear and sparkle, and it was in one of those breaks that she had seen the Snitch. Adrenaline and ecstasy had riveted through her, and, forgetting strategy, she had put all the momentum that she could summon behind her and nearly sprained her shoulder reaching for the Snitch.

She could still feel the gold quivering in her hand as she held the wand. She smiled.

That day contained a joy that she knew even then would not come again, not for her: the joy of athletics, of physical victory, of a joy suffusing the entire Ravenclaw House that was due entirely to _her_. The rain had returned and splattered on her face when she returned to the ground to be swamped entirely by the Ravenclaw team. The wind had risen against their backs, driving them back to their tower, for cakes, for warmth, for celebration.

The wind rose against Calliope's face and hand now. It carried autumn on it, carried her out of the early, early spring day.

"Don't hesitate!" Dora yelled.

One more time, she clenched her eyes shut. One more time, the adrenaline, the cheers, the rain and sparkle.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" she shouted.

Out of the plum wand burst – Calliope kept her eyes shut, imagining a vast swooping eagle, a lion rampant, maybe even a… she opened her eyes. A vague, glowing fog obscured Dora from her sight, dimly.

"Damn."

Dora ran to her, through the Patronus-fog, breaking it apart into little wisps. (Calliope cringed.) "That was very good, Callie!" she said. "I know it doesn't look like much, but believe me, it was a start."

"If I had cast it two seconds before it would have been better," Calliope said, looking to the Quidditch pitch.

"I know," Dora said. "If you hesitate, then… there's time for the memory to get corrupted, you know?"

"Corrupted? What do you mean?"

"Well…" Dora took a while to answer. "I mean, for my Patronus, it used to be that I'd think of a person, one person that I always felt happy with…"

"The same person every time?" Calliope asked (of course, a part of her was wondering if Dora meant _her_, but her more sensible part dismissed that).

"Mostly, pretty much, yeah, recently," Dora answered. "But lately… that person and I, we've had… a kind of a falling-out. We're still friends and all, but… if I think of him and cast a Patronus, if I don't do it _really fast_, then the happiness is gone and it's replaced by – it's replaced by what's wrong now. Between us." She paused. "That's why I've not yet cast a Patronus to show you how it's done."

"I wondered about that," Calliope admitted.

"Also," Dora ventured, "My Patronus' shape changed recently."

"It did?"

"I didn't mean for it to. But let me show you…"

She did. She did not close her eyes, but merely pointed her wand at a nearby tree and called, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A silvery light erupted from her wand tip and resolved itself into the form of a large, four-legged animal. Calliope shaped her eyes to get a better look at it. "It's – a dog? No, a sort of a wolf…"

"It really reflects somebody I know," Dora commented idly.

"A… a were—"

"It's their secret," Dora said quickly. "Not mine."

Calliope remembered what she'd read about what caused Patronuses to change. Massive trauma, personal struggle, or falling in love. She ventured, "It really has been a long time, hasn't it, Dora?"

"I guess." Dora shrugged and turned around, walking into the wind, towards Hogsmeade. ""I'm not sure how to feel about it. I mean – to realize that this guy – person has affected me so deeply, it's like, I don't fully belong to myself anymore. Granted, I was kind of aware of that beforehand, but having hard and fast evidence before me is another matter entirely."

Calliope said nothing. Dora turned to her with a little smile. "One day you'll know what I mean." Calliope nodded, biting her lower lip and looking westward.

"I think that's enough practice for today," Dora said. "You won't get much better if you push yourself without any dinner."

"I've got the theory on it, I just need practice!" Calliope insisted. She glared at the wand in her hand. "I'll read up about it more at Hollywyck…"

"Books aren't life," Dora pointed out. She took her friend's arm.

"They're a worthwhile substitute!" A glance at the Quidditch stadium. "Maybe if we returned to a place full of happy memories…"

"That's not a good technique to rely on, come on, we've got to do one more circumference of the castle before nightfall…"

"Wait a minute." Calliope stopped in her tracks. Happy memories… "I need to go… to take a quick visit. It won't be long, promise."

"Where?" Dora didn't let go of Calliope's arm.

"Just to Diagon Alley."

"_Ah_." Dora let her go. "All right. Be quick. Meet you back at the house."

"All right."

Mark received directions to an ATM and thanked the man graciously. With Linus at his heels, he went to the store and withdrew an undisclosed sum, automatically converted, from his own account in the U.S., muttering only, "That should do us," as he counted out the pounds.

Then, he asked the stationmaster for the name of some cheap but reliable nearby hotel or hostel. Having received those, he thanked the lady generously and followed her directions there, Linus hurrying behind him.

It turned out there was a hotel only a block away from King's Cross. In the lobby of the hotel itself (a cramped but neat and clean place), Mark rented a room with two beds and asked if he could call for pizza (yes, he could, but he had to pick it up at the door) and then he asked for a nearby shopping center ("for souvenirs.") He wrote down the directions he got, borrowed the lobby's phone to call for a half-pepperoni and half-cheese pizza, and then chatted with the clerk about the American disgust for ethnic cuisine, blithely ignoring Linus' paranoid glances at the windows and doors.

As the two of them ascended the stairs to their room Mark said to Linus, "All right – once we're in the room, I'd appreciate it if you set to work removing whatever nauseating spells there are on that cloak. The clerk said he'd send up a call when the pizza gets here. And maybe you could find us a good movie on TV."

As they entered the room (a bit small) Linus protested, "First of all, I don't even know how a TV works. Secondly, my Stone Cloak's magic is powerful and pervasive – it would take hours at least to deconstruct the spells on it and maybe more to put them _back_. It's a very delicate creation and furthermore indispensable and I'm not going to destroy it so you'll feel more comfortable."

"There's a difference between just feeling comfortable and having actual Muggle Repellant in the room." Mark sat on the bed nearer to the door.

"It's not Muggle Repellent, it's just a charm! And when it's packed away it doesn't even affect you."

"I – " Mark dropped his hands. "All right. It's been a long day. We're both very tired and stressed. I'm going to take a shower. Keep that cloak tucked away, and pay the delivery man when he comes – my wallet's right on the bed. And I'll find a movie for us to watch, or something, as soon as I'm done taking a shower. We should be up bright and early tomorrow so we can find a good shopping center or something."

Linus set his briefcase – his only salvaged item from the apartment – on the bed closest to the window, in case of attackers by broomstick. "What do you need a shopping center for?"

"New threads. I've had this shirt on for two days straight now, and it's obviously American. And you can't pass as a Muggle under casual circumstances." Mark glanced at Linus' under-cloak uniform: white shirt, gray slacks, a gray vest and black tie. "Well, maybe a bit, but you still look like a fish out of water. Be sure to pay the pizza guy fourteen pounds. And that said, see you in a bit!" Mark kicked off his shoes and almost leapt into the bathroom.

Linus rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. He took off his shoes and prodded the bed. He shrugged, muttering, "Could be worse." With a glance at the window, he took out his wand and started to ward the room, wondering if they had time for Mark's shopping scheme the next morning, or if they would be safe, and where Calliope was.

Calliope had hoped that, somehow, the shop would still be open.

She had hoped that there would be more lights in the windows than the reflections of the dim streetlamps up and down Diagon Alley. She had hoped that the doors would not really be boarded up, but that students-to-be would be passing in and out of it with excitement, even at this late hour. A part of her had believed that if she stood in the doorway and called for Hector, he would come, his footfalls light, with his chin-length blond hair and ready smile, as always. And then Uncle would follow.

She had hoped that the shop would still be alive.

But it stood there, narrow and empty, its face as dead and dull as an extinguished lamp.

And she stood there, her eyes wide, in front of the empty shop. She stepped forward so she would be in the doorframe, less visible in the street. She covered her face with her hands.

"_How does linden wood, a little more than eleven inches, with a phoenix feather core sound to you? Give it a wave, go on."_

She could see Uncle Servaas' smile as he wrapped the wand up and gave it to her.

"How could I have lost it?" she berated herself, quietly. "_How_ could I have lost it? Uncle would… he would never forgive me if…" She left that sentence fade off and leaned against the boards of the door, taking deep breaths and refusing to give into tears. Without prompting, she remembered something Mark had told her when she had shared the anniversary of her mother's death with him: "They say that people are never truly dead as long as they are not forgotten – which means that your mother will never be dead, because you will never forget her."

She gave a shuddering sigh, and reflected that, comforting as the sentiment was, it wasn't perfectly suited to the situation. But she remembered Uncle Servaas, and sent a quiet prayer, hoping he was safe, and that he would forgive her for losing his best birthday gift to her.

"Hello?" a voice interrupted her thoughts. A dark haired, middle-aged woman in a peach-and-white striped uniform was standing not far away and looking at Calliope with some concern. "Are you all right?"

"Just… a little rattled, that's all," Calliope explained quickly, and stiffly, standing up straight again. "To see… this shop… all empty."

The woman took a step closer. "Are you from the Ollivander family? I seem to remember you used to be around here quite often. You've been away for a while."

"Why… why, yes. How do you…"

"I'm Dulcinea Fortescue. My husband was… he was taken away recently. Just like Mr. Ollivander."

"Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss."

"I know it must be hard to come back to this." Mrs. Fortescue's eyes lifted to the empty windows.

"It is."

"Say, our old shop has needed some repairs, but my son and daughter and I are operating a little cart of some of our top selling flavors just around the corner. How about you come over and share a scoop or two? On the house."

"Oh, I couldn't…"

"I insist. Please, it'll be nice to talk about Mr. Ollivander with someone, if you don't mind. I remember how he used to say good morning to us every day, without fail. And he'd come over now and again and get into long discussions – lectures would be more precise – with Florean over history. Please, I'd really love if you paid us a visit."

"All right," Calliope managed a smile at the idea of her uncle and Florean sharing tales of wizarding history together, "I think I have time for that. And I've… I really have missed the taste of Fortescue's."

"Well, we'll fix you right up in a jiffy and maybe we can have a little bit of a talk…"

Calliope let Dulcinea Fortescue lead her away to the warm, sweet-smelling cart, but turned to give a last look at the shop before she went. In her heart of hearts, she knew she was promising, '_I'll come back_.'

Half an hour later, a blissful and still damp Mark stepped out of the bathroom, re-clothed, accompanied by billowing steam. "Aaaah." To Linus, who was sitting on the bed, experimentally chewing a slice of pepperoni and olives, "Pizza's here, I see. Timely. Is it good?"

"I – don't think I've ever had pizza before."

"But is it good?"

"It's….not bad."

"And you paid the guy?"

"_Yes_, I paid the guy. It was actually a blonde girl, if you must know."

"Good, good." He took a slice of pizza and bit into it. "Mm, mm. This is pretty good. Mind if I turn on the TV?"

"Go ahead."

Mark took the remote control and turned the telly on. The electricity hummed in the air, then hushed. "I just want to check the news. And maybe Masterpiece Theater if it's on. The reception's not that great here."

"That may be my fault. Magic makes electricity less reliable."

"Really? Huh. It's watchable, though."

Time passed as Mark flipped channels, at last arriving on the BBC. They both watched the news in silence. When a commercial came up, Mark muted the sound.

Linus asked "Is this what American Muggle families do?"

"What?"

"Sit in front of their televisions, saying nothing and eating junk food?"

"Well, I don't have my own family, but no, this is not what Americans do all the time, and not Muggles either. I want to hear the news, I'm too tired to talk, and _this_," gesturing to the pizza, "nourishing meal, my friend, provides us with dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow, compliments of the icebox there. Evidently you have never been to college."

"Well, excuse _me_."

Silence.

The news returned and Mark turned the sound on. The weary-eyed newscaster reported: "The total casualties from the Warwickshire bridge disaster have been at last tallied at two hundred thirty-three dead." A picture flashed on the screen of a bridge clearly severed.

Mark said, softly "Whoa."

Linus swallowed his second slice of pizza and said, after a pause, "That was wizards."

"What?"

The newscaster went on: "And now a special report from the Prime Minister…"

Mark muted the television. "What do you mean, 'that was wizards?'"

"Precisely what I said. That was a recent act of a renegade criminal society that targets Muggles and Muggle-born wizards specifically…"

"Terrorists?"

"You might call them that," Linus said thoughtfully. "Their business is terror. And death. They're the Death Eaters."

Mark turned to look at Linus. "Are, are they very influential?"

"We're at war. You, of course, have no idea. But it's been waging for – a year, maybe a year and a half now, though the press ignored it…"

"That sudden?"

"That was when their leader returned. We all thought he was dead. But –" he shook his head, "He came back. After thirteen years…"

"Who is he?"

"We call him You-Know-Who."

"But, what's his name?"

"Nobody speaks it – nobody who values their life, anyway."

"Does the name have power?"

"I don't know. I've only said it twice in my life."

"That bad? What is he, Sauron?"

"Who?"

"The Lord of the Rings… never mind. That's how bad it is?"

"Yes, that's exactly 'how bad' it is." Linus stared blankly at the television screen for a bit, before saying carefully, "You know that Calliope and I had a sister, an older sister, right?"

"I've heard. She died when Calliope was two…?"

"She didn't die. She was murdered by Death Eaters – the people, terrorists, who work for You-Know-Who."

"God's sake, why?"

"You think _I_ know?" Linus faltered. "We… we think it's because… well, you've noticed that some wizards, wizards who are very traditional and… foolish, believe that Muggles are inferior. As a consequence, they believe that wizards who are Muggle-born are inferior, and wizards who marry Muggles are inferior, as are any children resulting from that union. My mother's family – the Ollivanders – from whom Calliope and I take our name – is a _very_ old, very pure-blooded family traditionally. At least, in the official documents. But our father – our father was not only a foreigner, but his family is mixed. So our blood is mixed. That was the closest we could get to a _reason_ for why Benny should have died. Not that there was any reason to be found."

After a pause, Mark asked, "How old were you?"

"I was seven."

"Oh god. I'm sorry."

"Well… thank you. It was a long time ago."

"And those people are back?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that's why your uncle was… taken?"

"No. Even Umbridge would find it impossible to fault Uncle Servaas for his bloodline. Uncle Servaas is, however, a great wandmaker. And he knows about everything there is to know about wands… and that could be very valuable, or very dangerous."

"Jesus."

"It's kind of fascinating," Linus went on, in an emotionless voice, "to consider everything that might be done if you didn't have any moral qualms – what avenues of magic you could explore thoroughly… but fortunately, most of us _have_ moral qualms. They're rather important."

"Well… I guess that your sister's death must have influenced you a lot, huh?"

Linus gave him a look that was sufficient answer.

"I mean, you went into Magical Law Enforcement. You clearly have a strong sense of justice."

"I… my branch of M.L.E. doesn't arrest criminals or anything like that."

"Oh? What do you do for a living?"

Linus again found himself unable to meet Mark's eyes. "Ah… well… I'm an Obliviator."

"You mentioned that before, but I didn't quite get what you do."

"There are several varieties of us – some specialize in making buildings impossible to find or draw, others work more purely on research into the human mind – my primary job is to Modify the memories of any Muggle who has a run-in with magic without proper clearance."

Mark blinked. "Modify memories? Clearance?"

"Well, yes. The parents of Muggle-born wizards or witches, for example, or sometimes the Muggle spouse of a witch or wizard. Some Muggles just have the privilege of knowing about this world, like heads of state."

"You mean the President of the United States knows wizards exist?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Explains a lot. But what do you mean, 'modify memories'?"

"Using magic to remove the memory permanently from the conscious mind. Make it irretrievable." He glanced at Mark, who was about to speak. "I know what you're thinking, everyone thinks we erase or delete memories, no, they're still there, we just – relocate them. We're not wiping minds clean, like windows or something. It's about moving a precise occurrence so that the conscious mind of the Muggle cannot recall it. A very delicate skill, and one essential to the survival of the Wizarding World."

Mark was silent for a long time.

This was unusual, Linus decided, and glanced over to look at him. He looked – disappointed? Apprehensive? At length, Mark ventured, "So you mean any Muggle who has any magical, unexplainable encounter – you just take it away from them? Blip it?"

"That – take it away – not really, but, yes."

"What about _me_?"

"I know it sounds harsh," Linus swallowed, "I know it is kind of harsh, but believe me, you would rather forget everything about the magical world than be sent to Azkaban, even without Dementors."

"The mentors?"

"Don't even ask. _Don't_."

"Fine, I won't… does this mean that, if all goes well, if maybe I get acquitted, that I could receive clearance to remember my experiences?"

Linus made a face. "That's a long shot, especially in these days. It's likelier that your memory would be Modified."

Mark's face was impassive. "Does that mean… does that mean I would have no memory of having ever met Calliope?"

Linus did not answer for a few moments. When he did, he spoke professionally. "Well, leniency suggests that you retain your memories of Calliope, but your memory of the past three days will be modified. You will completely forget that Calliope is a witch, for example, or that witches and wizards even exist, or that you met me."

Mark said nothing.

More gently, Linus said, "You'll be happier that way."

"Okay, I get it. And you're saying that _you'd_ be able to do that to me if…"

"If I saw fit. Yes."

Mark swallowed. "Okay. Um. Let's talk about something else."

"As you wish. If you're sure you don't want to watch…" he gestured towards the flickering screen.

"The television? Well, it's not going away, is it? But I want to talk now. Um… tell me about the Wizarding United States."

"American wizards? Well, I don't know a lot. I guess – well, the stereotype is that they're loud, boisterous, kind of rude…"

"Typical American stereotypes…"

"But they're also reputed to be really lucky."

"Lucky? Us? How?"

"It started out as thirteen colonies, right?"

"Yes."

"That's one of the single unluckiest numbers in Arithmancy. Wizards – some more than others – put a lot of stock into Arithmancy."

"… is that fortunetelling with numbers?"

"It's complicated business with numbers. But most folks would agree: a country that started out in thirteen parts would be doomed to fail."

"Ah. But…"

"But now it's one of the most successful countries in the world, with forty-nine states – a_ very_ lucky number. There's even a song called Yankee Jinx, goes something like…"

"Forty-nine? There's fifty states."

"No, there's forty-nine."

"I'm an elementary school teacher, I'm pretty sure there's fifty."

"Oh! Maybe for Muggles, but I'm pretty sure that the Wizard government doesn't count the Hawaiian Islands as part of their jurisdiction. They're associated and protected, of course, but not a state per se."

"Why?"

"I'm not familiar with Hawaiian magical practices, but I hear it's a terrible thing to get on the bad side of."

"_Cool_. I'd like to hear more about that."

"That's about as much as I know. But I hear the more traditional types use hollowed-out gourds in addition to wands for magic… but that's seriously about it."

"But how come the Hawaiian Islands aren't a state in the Wizarding world but they still remain a state in Muggle politics?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Oh. Sorry."

"Other thing about the U.S. – one of the few countries in the world that actually followed Quodpot instead of Quidditch."

"What's the difference?"

"Quidditch the ball goes through hoops, Quodpot the ball explodes if it's not put in the cauldron on time. Completely insane."

"… Oh. What?"

Linus looked confused, then realized, "Quidditch is the national sport. Played on broomsticks."

"Broomsticks? Really? Do they ever televise games?"

Linus looked at Mark. "I didn't know how to operate a remote control until today. Answer is no. However, they do air commentary on the radio. I like to listen to a match if it's after work, maybe with some folks from the office."

"What's your home team?"

"Oh, it varies. Depends on what gang I'm with – but I have a fond spot for the Montrose Magpies. Most successful team in the League by far, and sort of my home team – they're closer to Hollywyck than any other team. Yeah, they'd be my home team."

"Awesome. But America doesn't play that game at all?"

"Well, they have some remarkable teams. I've heard good reports of the Los Angeles Seraphim and the Baltimore Orioles – I think that's the name. But American Quidditch really doesn't quite compare. On the other hand, America quite surpasses England with its rich theater tradition."

"For example?"

"For example, the current toast of Mockingbird Lane (it's an alley just off of what you'd call the West End) is an American retelling of 'The Little Mermaid.'"

"_Really!_"

Linus gave a smirk. "No, actually, I'm joking. Yes, really. From what I've read, for half of the show the stage is flooded with six feet of water that doesn't spill to the audience at all. The actors swim and sing in authentic Mermish with a translation provided."

"Oh, I'd love to see that."

"So would I," Linus admitted.

"Hold on – does it retain the original ending, or does it go the Disney route?"

"The Disney route?"

" I mean, is the ending happy or sad?"

"Oh, it's quite happy –"

"Aha, the Disney one –"

"The mermaid, Andrea, discovers that she was actually switched at birth with the evil 'human' princess, who's actually a mermaid, and in the end Andrea transfigures herself back to a human permanently and marries her prince."

Mark blinked.

"And then she forgives the evil princess, who has to live as a mermaid."

"Wait." Mark shook his head. "_What?_ That's not the real ending at all! That's not even Disney!"

"What's Disney?"

"The one where her father turns her into a human."

"But she was born a mermaid? Well, we couldn't have _that_ marriage, that'd be – uncomfortable. For the audience."

"How so?"

Linus sighed. "I keep forgetting how much you don't know. Merpeople are real. To a wizard, the idea of marrying a mermaid is utterly repellant."

"Then why make a play off of the original story? Or the Disney movie?"

"What's a Disney movie?"

"Oh… Oh, you don't even know. I've got to educate you, man."

"The same way you educated Calliope, you mean?"

"Well… yes. But somehow you don't strike me as a Disney person."

"And why not?" Linus bristled. "What makes Calliope a Disney person and not me? What's Disney, anyway?"

"They make cartoons, okay? I'm just saying – wait, did you say mermaids are real?"

"They prefer the term merpeople, as there is only a slightly greater number of mermaids than mermen."

"But they're real?"

"Yes. And spread out all over the world."

"_Wicked_."

"Wicked? How is that wicked at all? They're quite harmless if not provoked…"

"No, no, wicked, it's a slang we use in Boston. Like frappe. Or bubbler."

"… I'm not even going to ask."

Calliope had returned to Hogsmeade. She and Dora were sitting in the living room. Dora was quizzing her on the guard schedule.

"Tomorrow, Tuesday, you'll be patrolling the platform at Hogsmeade when the Hogwarts Express comes in. Following that, all Tuesdays from then will be patrolling the train platform, and then it's to the castle perimeter for the late evening and the wee sma's." Calliope slumped in her chair. "Can I go now?"

"No."

"But I have to practice more with my wand."

"You practiced enough. Besides, you know the mandatory curfew."

"But I'm behind on the Patronus Charm."

"You're not behind," Dora explained calmly. "Even a cloudburst is a good start. And the concentration to make a proper corporeal Patronus is incredible. It can come and go." She gave a dark smile. "As I demonstrate. But even the first corporeal Patronus takes time. What is it?"

Calliope had sat up. "If the mandatory curfew is on now – who's that at the window?"

Dora spun around as a knock came at the door.

"It's me, Remus," said the voice on the other side.

Calliope watched Dora to see what she would do. Dora's facial expression became panicked for a moment and then – sad – and she stood up and did not go to the door.

"Shall I get it?" Calliope offered.

"No, no, I'll get it," Dora strode to the door with a new, set look on her face. Leaning one hand on the doorframe, she asked, "Remus, what is your Patronus?"

"A crow," came the response. "Dora, what is your favorite book?"

"_Saria, the Self-Reliant_, by Clytemenestra Eyre." Dora said, opening the door. She added to Calliope, "We've got to decide on some good long-term security questions, not just random nostalgia that _hi Remus_."

Through the door stepped a tall, pale-looking man. His graying hair did not give him a distinguished look, only an aged one. Calliope stood up. He nodded to her.

"Remus Lupin," Dora said, "This is Calliope Ollivander, one of my oldest friends who's working with us now. Calliope, this is Remus Lupin, another Order member who – is a very good friend of mine."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ollivander," Remus Lupin said courteously, shaking her hand. "Dora's given me a favorable idea of you."

"Good to hear! Thank you. It's an honor to get to know more of the Order."

"I'm very concerned about your uncle, too, by the way. He is in the Order's top priorities, I want you to be aware."

"Thank you." Calliope nodded.

Remus turned to Dora. "I'm heading off for my assignment tonight and I wanted to see you before I went. Just to check in."

Dora gave a kind of half-smile, then glanced at Calliope (without intended significance). Calliope demurely remarked that her clothes needed unpacking.

As she hung up the skirt, blouses, and overrobes in her closet, she could hear the two conversing in low tones. At one point Dora's voice suddenly raised to a near-cry of "I don't _care_!" but it was quickly silenced.

Shortly afterwards, their voices faded, and Calliope heard the door close. And she heard Dora say, "Godspeed."

"Mm," Turpentine mused. "What a pretty scene. A great-uncle reading _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ to his beloved niece. A bedtime story, complete with glass of milk, a moon-shaped lamp, and a blue plush –" he squinted to see the memory better in its tongs – "elephant. How peaceful."

He deposited the memory into the bottle. "Really, Mr. Ollivander, I must commend you. Every memory I gathered of Benedicte was of a helpful and clever, charming child, a memory held dear. Really, I'm a bit sorry that Benedicte is such a fit subject for this experiment, but you see, only _she_ fits the criterion I need. A young person, well-loved… subject of some media attention, who died suddenly and in her late teens… died some time ago… and when _you_ showed up, Mr. Ollivander, well! That was just the closure of serendipity, I'm sure. And who am I to disagree with that? But now…"

He had placed the bottle, uncorked, exactly equidistant between two other bottles. They all sat on the marble slab, which had a nine-pointed star carved on it from three overlapping triangles. Thanks to Mr. Ollivander's 'cooperation,' every bottle now was full with a teeming, treasured memory of Benedicte Ollivander. Servaas Ollivander himself was curled up and gasping in his corner, like a child that has woken from a nightmare.

Turpentine carried on. He pulled out of his pocket one last bottle with an innocent collection of flowers in it: four blue pansy heads, and five carefully suspended dandelion clocks, along with a handful of forget-me-nots. The dandelion clocks and the pansy heads he placed alternating around each inner corner of the star. The forget-me-nots he tossed over the whole table with a careless air.

The spell began.

He took a deep breath and took slow, deliberate steps counterclockwise around the table to begin the spell in earnest. He tipped over the first uncorked bottle, the one of Benny's christening, and let its silver contents spill out and diverge into the two lines. He said, "Be."

Then he tipped over the second bottle. "Ne."

The third. "Dicte.

The fourth. "Cle."

And so on. "Mence. Oll. I. Van. Der."

Now the entire star was full and almost pulsating with the memory fog, which immersed the little flowers. Back at where he started, the Death Eater let the memories blend for a minute. After gathering himself, with the hunter's speed he crouched and pointed his wand flat into one of the angles.

"_Damnatio memoriæ!" _He called. Three of the points in the star were emptied immediately, the memories evaporating as if they had never been.

Not losing a beat, the Death Eather philosopher almost sprang a third of the way around the table, and repeated his crouch and aim, "_Damnatio memoriæ_!"

Now only a third of the memories were left – and with a spring and a shout of "_Damnatio memoriæ_!" they, too, had evaporated.

When the table was empty except for the bottles, four withered pansies, a few dead blue petals, and scattered, spinning dandelion seeds, Turpentine stood up, breathing as if he had run three flights of stairs. He muttered to himself, "Well, that's done," and turned to Servaas on the floor.

"I am sorry, sir," Turpentine said, "They were beautiful. I'll question you in the morning."

Servaas had fainted. Turpentine levitated him onto his pallet, and then, with only a backwards look at the table, he climbed the stairs out of the cellar and closed the door.

Miles and miles away, Linus Ollivander, kept awake by stress, and a feeling that he should stand guard, gave a little gasp. He started to sob. He slid off of his bed and into the bathroom. After much fumbling, he managed to find the light switch. The hideously bright light flickered on. Without his glasses, he could see his own shape very vaguely in the mirror. He was hunched over the sink, and crying and crying like a child.

When the first storm was passed, he rinsed his face weakly and said to himself, "Oh god… I'm so tired… I've got to go to bed," but gave another sob and was heartbroken even by that statement, and could not say why.

_On October 31__st__, 1966, a young black-haired girl raced into the wand shop on Diagon Alley. She shoved through the door, dripping rainwater onto the welcome mat, and calling, "Uncle Servaas! I'm here! Let's get started!"_

_Her parents, more subdued, followed her into the shop, shaking out their umbrella. "A young lady of ten like yourself," her father tugged her out of her coat, "should compose herself better."_

"_Hop up and down on one foot," her mother suggested dryly._

"_Ahh, what have we here? Do you know how early it is?" Her great-uncle descended the stairs, a rather spry man for his age. The girl drew herself up to her full height, and he crouched down to her eye level. "Are you ready for your measurements?"_

"_Yes I am, Uncle!" She declared._

"_This evening, Uncle, if you're interested," her mother added, as Servaas took out the measuring tape and began measuring the girl's right arm, "The Crouches are taking us out for dinner to celebrate. You're welcome to come along."_

"_We'll see about that, Philomel. This child may be tricksy to find a good wand for," he fixed the girl with a steely gray eye. "You know her."_

_She smiled back irrepressibly. _

"_Take a seat," Philomel indicated to her husband. "This might take a while."_

"_Actually," Servaas took down a long box from a shelf at his shoulder level, "For some time I've had a feeling that this wand – in this box, would suit you."_

_The girl clenched her fists. Her wide gray eyes glanced from her great-uncle to the box in his hands. When he took off the lid and offered it to her, she took it tentatively._

"_Ten and three quarter inches. Lithe. Cypress, from Mount Cynthus, in Greece, and a strand of unicorn hair from a yearling."_

_As the girl held it, a smile bloomed on her face. She drew the wand rapidly against the air: a crackle of yellow light followed the wand and illuminated the store. It could not match the pride on the face of her clapping parents, or the satisfaction on the face of her great uncle. He placed the wand back into its box and paper, and handed it to her with a kiss on her forehead._

"_Happy birthday, Benedicte."_


	11. Get Ready, Get Set

Get Ready, Get Set

A pink fury was storming through the Obliviator's and Paramnesiac Department, despite the Obliviator's earnest attempts to waylay it.

"Treason and treachery!" she shouted, or attempted to – after a few minutes wheezes began to punctuate her sentences. "I'll expose the corruption of this branch if I have to! An Obliviator deliberately harboring a fugitive from justice! Approved by his superiors! I'll speak to him myself or have you all arrested as accomplices after the fact!"

"What seems to be the problem?" T. Rowle, head Omniamnist for the London Division, walked on to the scene, adjusting his cloak (nearly black, with no ornamentation aside from a white crescent moon on the left collar and a black crescent on the right collar, the only marks of an Obliviator). He stood before Dolores Umbridge as she swayed a bit on the spot with her gasps and wheezes.

"Rowle, how could you have not _heard?_" she demanded. "A trusted Oneironomist, recommended to the court by your signature, has – " she spluttered, "abandoned the court with his client! The Muggle did not return to Sycorax jail at his curfew, and your L.O. has failed to report for work today…"

"Oh, has he?" Rowle said calmly. "Could someone please get me an attendance report for today?"

E.C. responded promptly, "L.O. sent in a note explaining his absence. Says he's got an emergency family meeting. He said he'd be back in a few days."

"Aha. And can this sister be contacted?"

"Well, _I _haven't tried yet."

"That seems to clarify that. Miss Umbridge, do come inside my office, let's not make a scene about this."

The grey-cloaked crowd parted to let her pass, watching her with faces that didn't dare betray emotions.

T. Rowle's office was a subdued place. There were very few photographs on the walls, but a couple of well-tended plants and a generous (synthetic) window on the wall behind him. Rowle pulled out a chair out for Umbridge, who seemed to have calmed down a little bit.

"Really, Miss Umbridge, I don't see what my compartment itself has to do with all of this."

"One of your men abandons the Ministry to support a –"

"Now, now. There is no proof that my Obliviator has run away. He has written a note excusing his absence."

"A fake! A ruse to give him a head start!"

"Mm, maybe so. It may be so. But Linus Ollivander has never been one to deceive…"

"_Ollivander_? Did you say the boy is an _Ollivander_?"

"Yes, the young _man_ is an Ollivander through and through."

"Ah… I hadn't realized…" Umbridge had begun to lean into her seat but then sat up straight again. "Child of _Philomel_ Ollivander?"

"But of course."

"But of course," Umbridge sneered at Philomel's memory.

"To play devil's advocate," T.R. pointed out, "Let me remind you that for many years Philomel Ollivander served as a brave and able member of Magical Law Enforcement."

"New stains don't wash out old ones," Umbridge quipped. "But Linus Ollivander was still given custody of Mark Printzen, who was supposed to report to the Sycorax Thames Jail last evening and has so far failed to do so."

"You didn't tell me that."

"I wouldn't be here if that weren't the case."

"All right, all right. Let's say, for theory's sake, that L.O. has gone on the lam with this Muggle. Is it not possible that he could be under a threat? Against him, property, or against a loved one?"

"What could a _Muggle_ possibly have to hold over a wizard?" Umbridge scoffed.

"Information. Ties to the Muggle mafia. Maybe even force. Don't laugh, I've seen a wizard die at the hands of a Muggle wielding a gun. It's possible, with his longwinded attempt at Presumption, that the Muggle is completely unhinged but clever. L.O. could be a hostage."

"In which case, to be overpowered by a Muggle means he's incompetent and an utter embarrassment to your department."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. Is it true that the Muggle was to be sent to Azkaban?"

"Yes."

"Then let's try a new scenario, say that L.O. sympathized with his Muggle client, that he found this ruling unfair and wanted to take the Muggle to political asylum – maybe the Republic of Ireland – before making a legitimate appeal."

"Nobody runs away when they're in the right. Not to _Ireland_, at least."

"Maybe Finland, then."

"Are you mocking me?"

"By no means."

"Mister Rowle!" Umbridge stood up and stormed around the desk to his side. "Where is your loyalty, to your Ministry or to this presuming American Muggle?"

Rowle answered calmly, "My Ministry, always my Ministry. But I am not defending the Muggle, I am defending one of my best Obliviators."

"Defend him all you like," Umbridge lifted one finger in warning, "But I'm telling you: you had better do everything in your power to find L.O. and bring him back to your department for a firm and lengthy interrogation. If I do not receive proof – and I have people who will tell me – that you are doing your utmost, everything within your power, to find L.O. and bring him back alive, then you can tear up that Cloak of yours for cleaning rags for all the good it'll do you."

Rowle sat stunned in his chair for a moment. At last he gave his head a little shake and stood up, towering well over Umbridge. "You want L.O. alive? You don't care about the Muggle?"

"Alive. I don't care about the Muggle, as long as he's stopped. L. Ollivander is under your jurisdiction. I expect you to act accordingly."

She left without another word, and did not slam the door behind her.

He took a breath, watching the door unblinkingly. Finally he whispered, "I will act accordingly. Oh, yes I will."

That morning, Linus took more coffee than a self-respecting Brit ought to have, in his opinion, just to keep up with Mark. The brown-haired man kept talking about all the other things he'd like to visit in England – he mentioned something about the wild moors and acting out a show called 'Withering Heights,' which apparently consisted of people running around yelling "Heathcliff! Catherine!" punctuated by the occasional swoon. The pizza did indeed serve as a tidy breakfast (to Linus' disbelief).

Mark took a detour to a shopping mall, where he bought himself a new suit of clothes and a briefcase for his things. Linus insisted that once they got to Hollywyck, Mark would be able to borrow some of his clothes, but it seemed important to the Muggle to have things of his own. He changed in the public restroom, and stepped out looking passably British. Said Mark, as they left the mall, "I wonder what became of my little backpack. Probably permanently taken into custody to be one day destroyed."

Linus did not disagree.

"I'm sorry. I liked that backpack. Served me well at U Penn. So do we have everything we need?"

Linus frowned. "I'm trying to think… there was something I remembered we had to get…"

"Water? Energy bars? Fake IDs?"

"No – no – chocolate!"

"What?"

"We've got to get some chocolate." He said with such a tone and with such a face that Mark didn't dare joke. "I think we passed a grocery on our way here."

"What… kind?" Mark asked, slowly.

"Any kind. Good quality. Fewer preservatives. Not white chocolate. The darker the better."

"That's not quite _any kind_. But I've heard lots of times that British chocolate is superior to American. I'm eager to see if that's true."

"This is for emergencies."

"Exactly what kind of…"

"Now remember yesterday how I Apparated with you to the station?"

"I don't think I could forget it."

"Once we buy the chocolate, we're going to go to Hollywyck the same way."

"Oh? Why didn't we do that yesterday?"

"Yesterday I was too tired and didn't feel I could risk a long voyage, especially with a passenger. But I'm awake now, I have more energy – theoretically – and we can't afford to waste more time. We'll get there before you know it."

"… Okay. I trust you."

"You should. First, the chocolate."

Agatha Zabini tossed her office keys up and down in her hand, bidding her co-workers "Good morning." A short, blonde Obliviator met her outside her office door with a smile on her face.

"Hello," The Obliviator held out a hand. "I'm A.T., of the Obliviator's and Paramnesiac Division. I believe you are Agatha Zabini? I would like to talk to you."

Agatha shook the proffered hand and readjusted her stance, emphasizing her height. "Ah, hello. I haven't even entered my office yet, as you can see. Could you wait a moment?"

"No, Miss Zabini, I'm afraid this is an emergency."

Agatha wanted to ask, "How old are you?" with the expected answer of "eighteen," but something steely in A.T.'s eyes made her think better of it. She settled for, "What do you need my help for?"

"It's not very difficult to figure out. The safety and freedom of a Muggle and Obliviator relies on it. I'm just asking you for a full transcript of the trial of Mark Printzen."

Kingsley Shacklebolt was walking past them on his way to the Minister's office – the last two sentences intrigued him more than he showed.

Word traveled fast in the Order of the Phoenix. Kingsley had heard that very morning of A. Tweak, the Obliviator, working to clear the name of a convicted Muggle and her colleague. Within an hour and a half, Hestia Jones had found out and read five news articles relating to the subject and had been informed of Tweak's professional record and specialty (research into the mind and mental disorders.)

Notes were taken, ideas were communicated, and it became clear that Mark Printzen, Linus Ollivander, Hector Gibbs, and now, Amity Tweak, were all to be watched.

Happily this coincided with the resolution of the threatening letters being sent to the Netherfield family. As one ball was added to the juggler's set, another was taken out. So business conducted itself in the Order of the Phoenix.

Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, the windows washed out the corridors with dull, cloud-light in the morning, before it began to rain. The dormitories were empty and some teachers were preparing for their classes, some enjoying a last cup of tea in the faculty lounge. One teacher, in her sunny classroom, was bent over her desk, pushing pale curls off of her forehead.

After the clock chimed two o' clock, she stood up, took the papers she had been poring over, and left her classroom.

We move ahead of her to meet Professor McGonagall. Her walking stick (still quite shiny after three months of use) leaned against her desk. She spotted a plump, younger woman standing at the door. "Come in, Professor Burbage," she beckoned, and Professor Charity Burbage entered.

She walked up to McGonagall with a subdued smile. "Good morning, Minerva, how are you?"

"Rheumatic, overworked, and fine. Just as busy as I like it. How can I help you?"

Professor Burbage set the papers down on McGonagall's desk. "I was reviewing my cache of students' work – planning on showing my sixth years some exceptional Muggle summer projects, you know, give them an early start – and I came across this paper."

McGonagall took it up and read the title aloud. "_Peter Pan's Awfully Big Adventure: A Summer Among Actors_." She checked the upper left hand corner. "Benedicte Ollivander –" hesitated – "Gryffindor, August 1972."

"That was when I had just got my footing as a teacher here, twenty-four years ago," Burbage volunteered, "And I read it through, it's an _excellent_ essay. I see my own annotations all over it, but I don't recall having read it before. And I can see by your face, you have the same issue as I had –"

Professor McGonagall overrode her: "I don't remember any Benedicte Ollivander, and certainly not in my House."

"The two Ollivander children, Linus and whats-her-name, they were Ravenclaws, I remember –"

"But their mother was a Gryffindor, the black sheep, she was. I remember _her_."

"I couldn't possibly have misread the name, could I?"

"No, I don't think so, the writing is quite clear…"

"And I'm sometimes foggy remembering old students, but this name, this Benedicte Ollivander, means _nothing_ to me."

After a pause, McGonagall was forced to admit, "Not to me either." She checked the teacher's schedule on the wall behind her. "Flitwick taught in 1972, you can ask him. Slughorn will be by tonight. He has a good memory but –"

"Fallible," Burbage supplied.

"Yes, if this girl seemed important to him he'll remember everything about her. An Ollivander especially."

Over the rest of the day, Professor Burbage's tottering footsteps sounded all over the school as she asked Flitwick, then Sinistra in her astronomy tower, then down to the greenhouses, to find Sprout. Then, shyly, Burbage approached Hagrid's gamekeeper hut. His memory for students who were his friends was clear and good as gold. But he, too, shook his head.

"I don't recall any Ollivander o' that name, nor any that was a Gryffindor besides their mam. You might ask Dumbledore, or mebbe look in the trophy room, see what ye find."

To the trophy room Professor Burbage duly went, though she wanted to reserve meeting Dumbledore for a last resort.

Between Quidditch medals and honors from the Potioneers' Society, she found solid proof that Benedicte Ollivander was real: she had been named Gryffindor Prefect and later Head Girl in 1972. Burbage gave a small, happy sigh; this assured her that this _was_ an aberration, not a hoax. Benedicte Ollivander _had_ existed, but this was strange: no one remembered her now. That was essential to keep in mind… unless, of course, this Head Girl crest was also a hoax…

Burbage shuddered. She had always been a touch paranoid. But she was certain that this was important: she knew it in a firm, steady part of her mind.

Upstairs, in the tower with the most impressive view from its windows, the only person who could have shed further light on this case was entering Dumbledore's office to discuss the Swiss wandmaker. There was no small talk: Dumbledore merely offered her a small candy, which she declined.

"I learned that Gregorovitch refused to accompany you to England. Could you please give me a full explanation of your visit there?"

Calliope remembered that this might be her last chance to discuss with Dumbledore, and recited her facts carefully and quickly. "I arrived in Switzerland without any problem. He admitted me into his house, he wasn't busy with anything, and he chatted a bit. He didn't know about my mother's death, so he seemed to be out of touch. When I told him about my uncle, he was concerned for himself before he expressed, you know, sympathy."

"He is only human," Dumbledore remarked.

She nodded. "I know. I offered him the Order's protection, though, and his mood changed dramatically – it was suddenly an unthinkable convenience to… um, 'put his life on pause' was what he said, for his safety. He said he was competent enough to face it." Her voice faltered, she couldn't look at Dumbledore's bright eyes again. Looking at the carpet, she continued, "He said that _you_ have more to fear than he does."

"And he is absolutely right," Dumbledore said, nodding. "Don't let that upset you, Miss Ollivander. What happened then?"

She frowned. "I… let slip… a Moroccan phrase, that I heard my grandfather use, and after that Gregorovitch seemed to regard me a joke. He showed me this symbol, and when I didn't know it, he…"

"Where is the symbol?"

"Oh!" Calliope's cheeks flushed. "I don't have it with me, but I can reproduce it easily."

"Please do so."

"Well… I found out it was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows."

Dumbledore had been tracing the windowsill's stone with his good hand. He froze. "Really?"

"Wait! Here, I have it!"

She hastily pulled the much-battered and crinkled napkin from her inner pocket. Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted slightly at the triangle, circle, and line symbol. For a long time he did not speak. Finally, he said, "Very interesting."

"So after I left Gregorovitch, being unable to convince him," she went on, more quickly now, "I returned to Hogsmeade and started living with Dora. We've had a busy couple of days. Yesterday I accompanied her to the Hog's Head for the meeting, and at the bar I sat next to a girl who also recognized the symbol. A Hogwarts student."

"Really?"

"Yes. Her name's Luna Lovegood."

"You found Luna?" Dumbledore asked, not displeased.

"Yes. I liked her very well. Er… she had her own idea about the symbol and what it meant. She associated it with the Deathly Hallows – which, I concluded, means that she thinks, and possibly Gregorovitch thinks too, that the Dark Lord's ultimate goal is the acquisition of the Elder Wand."

There was a pause.

"And how did you regard that theory?" Dumbledore asked.

"Farfetched. At best. I've always been of the opinion that the Elder Wand was thrown into the sea, sealed in an anchor, and has yet to be recovered. The idea of it surfacing, and of … of You-Know-Who…"

"Say Voldemort."

Calliope stuttered, (it was much more difficult in English than French) "V-v-vold-more working to possess it is – rather alarming."

"Indeed."

Calliope swallowed. "But I don't intend to give up the search for my uncle yet, sir. I'm planning on returning to Hollywyck as soon as possible to research all I can on the Elder Wand – if you'll give me leave, that is."

"Of course, of course, leave is given." Dumbledore waved his preternaturally black hand. Calliope shuddered, but ignored it.

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Miss Ollivander, for your time and diligence." Dumbledore glanced furtively to a clock on the wall. "May I ask you a parting question?"

"Of… of course."

"In a hypothetical situation, if you or your brother were in danger and on the run, where would you or he likely turn?"

Calliope considered a moment. "I think he and I would act pretty similarly – if we couldn't find refuge with a friend, probably Hollywyck. It's got powerful enchantments."

"Ah." Dumbledore seemed rather relieved by this news. "Thank you. Linus is quite a capable young wizard – much like yourself. He would make a valuable addition to the Order of the Phoenix, if he so chooses."

"Really?" Calliope clutched her skirt tightly.

"Yes, really."

"And sir –"

"Yes?"

"Was my information helpful?"

"More than you know, my dear." Dumbledore looked away from her, and towards the darkening Eastern horizon. "You have given me much to think about."

Calliope started to move slowly towards the door. "I'm glad, sir. I'll leave you to your work now…"

"Miss Ollivander, I have another question."

"Yes, Professor?"

He turned to her, and his blue eyes looked at her kindly and with – remorse? But it was impossible to think of Dumbledore being remorseful. "I hope I have not demanded too much of you, or demanded that you go against your own judgment, in asking you to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"How do I feel?" she repeated. "I – I don't think of it as a matter of feeling, sir. It was a chance for me to help, and I took it. I… well, admit that I never thought of the Order as an organization of which I would like to be part. But, now that I am, I'm rather… glad, to tell the truth, that I'm not a horrified spectator any more."

Dumbledore smiled. "Thank you. I am glad to know that you think so." He paused for a minute, but then he added, "That was your mother's reaction, too."

"What?" Calliope stopped, and stared at the old professor.

"Your mother, Philomel Ollivander, was a fine, brave, noble lady. After your older sister vanished, she applied to the Auror Division of the Ministry, but was rejected on account of her health."

"Yes…"

"She went to my colleague, Minerva McGonagall. It was not long before she stood exactly where you stand now, and frankly _demanded_ that I let her into the Order of the Phoenix. She said that she would do anything in her power to protect her two remaining children." Dumbledore looked at Calliope again, and he seemed to look straight through her as well. "I gave her the philosophy on which I built this Order. We accept the unacceptable. The outcasts. The unwanted. From a bed of ash and dried bone rises the phoenix – 'risen with healing in his wings,' as the lovely Muggle carol goes. Yes, Miss Ollivander, your mother was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and furthermore, she was one of our bravest and best fighters until I disbanded the Order in 1982. You would be too young to remember very well," he added, seeing Calliope's expression, "and I know that she told her husband, but very few others. And," he inclined his head gravely, "I know she would be immeasurably proud to see you doing the same."

Calliope said nothing. Her eyes were wide, and she was looking away from Dumbledore's face, and instead staring at a set of seven silver bells kept in a cabinet.

"Miss Ollivander?"

"Yes, sir?" She looked at him again.

"I hope I have not upset you?"

"No, sir, no… I am rather surprised, is all. But… I am… I'm proud of her, I think."

"And well you should be."

"Thank you, sir, for telling me."

"I am glad that you know now. Godspeed, Miss Ollivander."

"Thank you… Take care, Professor."

On the empty stairwell towards the Entrance Hall she passed Professor Burbage. She nodded, "Good day, Professor."

The older woman nodded a "Good day" back to her, and then, when she was at the top of the stairs and Calliope at the bottom, she exclaimed "Miss Ollivander!"

Calliope turned: Professor Burbage was clattering down the stairs towards her. "Miss Ollivander, may I ask you a question?"

"Why… sure, I'm happy to help."

"Don't laugh if you find this silly, but, did you have a sister or a cousin named Benedicte Ollivander who graduated in 1973?

Calliope looked a little surprised. "Well, yes. That was my sister."

"Really?" Burbage smiled. "Oh, is that a relief! What became of her, if I may ask?"

Now Calliope looked at her strangely. "Didn't you teach her?"

"I think – yes, I did."

"She died, Professor."

The happy music of discovery that had been ringing in Professor Burbage's ears came to a halt.

"She was killed by Death Eaters when I was about three years old."

"Died?" Burbage repeated as if dazed. "When you were three?"

"Yes."

"And that would be –"

"Twenty years ago, Professor." She added, "technically I was two and a half."

"Oh, my. I had – forgotten that." Indeed, in Burbage's mind, beneath the regret that the student she sought had died prematurely, there seemed to be a certain way that this fitted. Somehow, the name Benedicte combined with Ollivander did not strike her as the name of a lady who would grow up and have children and die of old age. "Thank you, Calliope. I'm sorry if I took up too much of your time."

The bell tower boomed the next hour, and with minimal pleasantries the two parted. Burbage passed through a landing on the stairs where Benny had once loved to sit and pass time with her non-Gryffindor friends – but now there was no one in the world who could have told her that.

Calliope, as she was coming out of the front doors of the school, spotted Dora running towards her. She quickened her pace. She could see Dora's little orange Wizarding Wireless in her hand.

"What is it, Dora?" She asked.

"I paused and rewound the broadcast - just listen!" Dora turned up the volume knob on her Wireless and pressed 'Play.' With scratches and a few hisses of feedback, the radio declared,

"We repeat, for the first time in two hundred years a Muggle has been sentenced to Azkaban for Presumption to Wizardry. Furthermore, it has been discovered today that the Muggle has failed to report to the Thames Jail. It is believed that he has gone on the run with a member of Magical Law Enforcement, an Obliviator named Linus Ollivander."

Calliope's eyes grew very wide. She took the radio in her hand to hear it better.

"The Obliviator, who had volunteered to represent the Muggle in court, is described as 'a rather tall man, with black hair, a black goatee, and glasses,' described as a capable wizard and a shrewd thinker. The name of the Muggle, who is an American, is Mark Printzen."

"What?"

"Sssh…" Dora said.

"_What?_"

"Ssh, listen!"

Calliope leaned forward.

"… described as having light brown hair and hazel eyes and will likely be dressed in Muggle clothing. His exploits of Presumption include serious bodily harm, including the use of an automobile against a witch…"

"_What_."

"So he is to be considered dangerous and perhaps mentally disturbed. The Ministry will be posting a reward for them both within the day…"

Dora, still breathing heavily, lowered the volume. "That was it. I'm going to guess you know the Princeton guy?"

"Printzen." Calliope corrected automatically. "I do. How in hell's name did he get – and Linus – and…" She turned away from Dora and started to pace frantically across the lawn. "A reward for them both? Presumption to Wizardry? Hitting a witch with a car, Dora, that was me! Mark must have been the one to hit me! And because of that they're sentencing him to…" she turned to her friend, frantic, "Dora, what am I going to do?"

"Calliope! I know this is scary. I know. But get a grip. Think this through. Linus has disappeared with Printzen – where would he be likely to go? You know Linus very well. Where would he…"

"Hollywyck."

Dora nodded. "All right. Then the next step is…"

"Go to Hollywyck. Wait for them there. If nothing else, Scurry can take me to where Linus is."

" _Very_ good. And you can't lose any time about it."

"I won't. I'll set out right away. I'll let you know if I need anything."

"Do that."

"And Dora?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell the Order about it?"

"I'll put out the word."

Calliope was starting to head for Hogsmeade, but looked up at the castle again. "You think you could tell Dumbledore for –" she stopped.

"Yes?"

"Wait. He already knows."

"You're learning," Dora smiled wryly, but it faded quickly. "Now go to Hollywyck before they get there!"

Calliope was already gone.

_"So where do you think _you'll_ be Sorted?_" _Benny took a deep breath, having just taken her listeners through her entire family tree and sketched her odds of being Sorted into Ravenclaw (the Ollivander's traditional house) or of following her mother into Gryffindor._

_ "Well, I really don't know," said her more talkative listener, pulling her pointed hat low over her ears. "Which is the best House for Muggleborns?"_

_ "Probably Gryffindor. Four to a boat, c'mon, Debbie!" Benny had only known this girl since the morning and was already on a nickname basis, "Let's take this one!" She pulled Debbie's sleeve towards an empty boat._

_ Benny, as they were joined by two other first-years in their boat, asked, settling herself in at the prow: "This is our first day at _Hogwarts,_ a once in a lifetime _experience, _so – if we all could please be, um, quiet as we go through?" She didn't seem to notice the irony. _

_Debbie nodded, as did the quiet blond boy (self-identified as "Gil") who was coming with them. The fourth student-to-be, a Chinese boy, only looked out across the water. When Debbie asked him his name, he was only able to give "Huo –" before, with a shudder that startled everyone, the boats took off._

_ The boat glided across the mirrorlike lake surface, broken by spare flutters of wind. Benny glanced around at the people sitting in the boat with her – maybe these would be her best friends one day? – and she was the first to see Hogwarts Castle. She gave a little gasp at the beauty of it, all its lights aflare against the Scottish sky._

_ That evening, Benedicte's new chum Martindale, Debra was Sorted into Gryffindor, along with "Huo," whose given name Benedicte _still _didn't catch._

_ The very quiet boy who had come in the boat with them, a certain Lockhart, Gilderoy, was Sorted into Slytherin._

_ Ollivander, Benedicte herself sat on the Stool with the Hat for a very long time before it declared her a Gryffindor as well. As she was cheered to the table, she heard the Sorting Hat's earlier words echoing in her ears:_

_ "The future lies before you,_

_ Terrific and unknown._

_ If you face it with courage,_

_ You're Gryffindor in your bones,_

_ If you see it full of conquest,_

_ A Slytherin you'll be,_

_ While Ravenclaws will see it as_

_ An unlocked mystery_

_ The Hufflepuffs will take in stride_

_ What they know they must face_

_ And now, all our futures unite_

_ In this beloved place.'_


	12. Master Linus Returns

Master Linus Returns

A/N: To those of you who are reading, thank you so much! Every Story Alert, Favorite, and Review means a lot to me. That's what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving.

Also, a quick note: those of you who have seen the Deathly Hallows [first] film already know that Thorfinn Rowle is indeed a character in the film, with an actor, an appearance, and a probable age. However, I hope that you will allow yourselves to forget that for when you read my story. Thank you.

Last bit, I don't know why this has a random bolding in the middle of it. I tried to fix it, but the server is being stubborn. Oh well.

Enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Surrounding the house for miles around was forest and garden and graveyard, the latter so winding and scattered that it was almost a paradox as to which came first, the woods or the cemetery. Stepping through this entity and explaining it all as he went along was the recently-Apparated Linus Ollivander, with Mark following close behind.

"All wizards are buried or burned with their wands, of course, if possible, but we Ollivanders take it a step further. We plant saplings of the same wood on the graves. The Ollivanders are an ancient clan in this country, and so we may actually be the source of this forest – at least, that's what my grandmother used to say."

Mark followed, seeing stones in the forest floor that were too old to be read and too square to be natural. One stone, from which two different trees grew, had the faint carving on it of a true-lover's knot. Another stone whose tree was felled and hollowed had the imprint of an anchor above a weathered name. Was the anchor a symbol of hope? Of martyrdom? Or did that stone name a hapless wandmaker who had died at sea?

Inexplicably, Mark felt on his guard: had he not been with Linus, he would have muttered, "My spider-sense is tingling," or at least something in that same vein. Every one of these trees sprang from the heart of a clan: Linus and Calliope's family. '_Very bad place, then, for a romantic midnight stroll…_' he thought, and scurried closer to the nearest (living) Ollivander.

Linus seemed to pick up on his trepidation, because he said, "Don't worry. I'm the legal heir of Hollywyck and everything on its grounds. You're perfectly safe with me."

Mark looked up at the treetops. "Is there anything here that you can see which I can't?"

Linus adjusted his glasses. "Not to my understanding, no."

To himself, Linus reflected that the trees to him did seem eerily more… anthropomorphic here than anywhere else, but Mark would probably prefer not knowing that.

"There are seven rows of wood surrounding the house itself – and not 'rings' either, precisely, but enclosed shapes, which is the point. A row of oak, hawthorne, and ash, then a thinner spread ring of rowan, a hexagram of cedar, then a few myrtle bushes – and lastly and most thickly, a ring of holly bush. Stay close."

Mark spotted what looked like a deliberate carving on one of the trees. "Waitasec – is that supposed to be there?" he asked, pointing.

Linus, walking very briskly by now, said only "yes."

"Does this place have any fences or railings?"

Linus pushed a branch away from his head and held it out for Mark to get past. "The trees are all the fence we need. And _that's_ the holly right up ahead."

Any joke about "hooray for holly-wood" that Mark had been preparing to make died in the face of that towering wall of thickly clustered, dark green leaves where new ones gleamed through like emeralds. Mark could only see some sky and the dark brown roof of a turret through the jutting, untrimmed branches at the top. "Is there any _other_ way to get in?" he asked.

"Well, yes – a gate, a path – but those are all the way on the other side of the house. And that's enchanted and still made out of holly. We're by the western door over here – don't be scared." Linus went right up to the holly and set his hands on two branches.

"So I'll just follow you?" Mark asked.

Linus didn't appear to have heard him – instead he was peering closely into the bush as though looking for an opening. "All right, here we are –"

"Linus…"

"One, two –"

"Linus?"

"Three!" Linus pushed on the branches and they parted for him. He stepped forward – and Mark followed his steps into the stippled light and shadow. He tried to follow as closely behind Linus as possible – the holly seemed to want to close directly behind Linus.

Just how thick could this hedge possibly _be_? And Linus seemed to have much more ease navigating the roots and fallen branches than Mark – or was it that they cleared the way for him? A branch snagged on Mark's pant leg. Another barb caught the sleeve of his jacket, scratching him deeply. He gave a small cry. "Linus – Linus, wait!"

But Linus was already striding ahead – and the holly was closing behind him, and around Mark.

Mark swore, and tried to tug his arm and leg free. The leaves above him were moving, blocking the speckled light from him. He realized that his arm by now was actually encircled by a pliant, but strong new branch. '_Do not panic_,' he though, '_do not panic.'_ Taking a deep breath, he tried to pull free – only to find that real, magical holly is unyielding, impenetrable, and equipped with extremely sharp leaves.

Linus broke through the other side of the holly. When he saw Hollywyck, he gave a long sigh of relief and satisfaction. "Home," he said softly.

"Linus!" called a voice that he knew. He looked and hailed his sister. "Callie!"

She checked her speed as she came down the slope and stopped a couple of feet away from him. "Linus. What is your wand made out of?"

He straightened up at once. "Trick question. One wand is walnut and unicorn hair, the other willow and dragon heartstring."

"Good. Now for me…"

"What was your first display of magic?"

"I crawled on that tree –" she pointed to a large apple tree that stood some distance away, "in the middle of winter and caused an entire branch of it to bloom. Good."

Linus grinned and stepped forward to hug her. "Callie, it's so good to see you again."

She hugged him but broke off quickly. "You too. But where's Mark?"

"What?"

"Mark. Mark Printzen. He's been accused of Presumption."

"Oh, Mark! He's right – he's right behind me…" Linus turned around to look, but there was no one on that side of the holly fence except themselves.

"Oh no… did I invite him in?" he asked himself, furrowing his brow. "I can't…"

"Oh, for pity's sake." Calliope left her brother and walked into the holly fence. The leaves parted easily for her before Linus could even follow.

"_Honestly_," She muttered as she stalked through the foliage. "Can't even remember to invite him…" she trailed off. She could see a form some way ahead of her in the darkness, and hurried towards it. As she got closer, the leaves parted over her head to let in some sunlight, revealing Mark, deeply mired in the branches, leaves, and thorns of holly, and looking quite alarmed.

"Mark!" she said loudly. He looked at her, and the sunlight fell on his face in the same minute. She couldn't help smiling as she said, "Mark Printzen, please come with me to Hollywyck. I invite you."

At her words, a susurration filled the air as the leaves retreated, the branches loosened and curled back into themselves, and brambles unhooked themselves from Mark Printzen. When he was entirely free, he stood there a bit awkwardly, rubbing his arm, and looking all around. Finally he looked at Calliope.

She offered her hand. "C'mon." He took it, with some surprise, and followed her out of the hedge. He could already see the other, open side of the fence. Before they reached it, Calliope stopped. She turned around to look at him. "Mark, it's really you, right?"

"How could you doubt me?"

"Name three movies that we've seen together."

"Ah? Er, _Gone With the Wind_, _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, and _Cabaret_."

"Good… now, ask me something only I would know."

"Why?"

"Because I might be an imposter."

"Oh, it's not enough that I've been accused of Presumption, now there might be a fake _you_ running around?"

"You really have been found guilty of Presumption?"

He glanced down and nodded. "Yes."

She gave a short huff. "Well, we have to fix that."

He looked up again. "You mean you believe me?"

"Of course. You're Mark. How could you be guilty?"

He beamed. "And that's how I know you're really Calliope."

"What are you waiting for?" Linus called from the other side of the fence. Together they turned and stepped onto the lawn of Hollywyck.

Mark could hear the holly closing itself behind them when he stepped out, but didn't want to look. Linus was waiting for them. "I could have looked for him myself!"

Calliope dropped Mark's hand. "It doesn't matter who looked for whom. I want to know how you two got here, and how _you_," indicating Mark, "were found guilty of Presumption, especially with _you,_" indicating Linus, "acting as his attorney! This doesn't make the slightest bit of sense…"

"Mark, what are you looking at?" Linus asked. Calliope turned.

Mark had stepped a bit away from the Ollivanders to get a better look at the house itself: a magnificent creation in the style of Mock Tudor architecture. Surrounding it were gardens and a fountain, but they did not block the grandeur of the house itself. "… you guys _grew up_ here?"

Linus gave a little cough and said, "Well, only sometimes. We spent more time in London, but we did used to spend every Christmas here."

"Whoa." Mark turned around to survey the forest. "Imagine Christmas in a place like this!"

"It was nice," Calliope admitted. "Let's go up to the house. I feel uneasy standing around and waiting."

"I agree. I could really use a nap." Linus started up the hill already.

"Are you really his attorney?" Calliope asked anxiously. "It just doesn't make sense."

Linus glowered. "In a sense… yes. It's a really long story."

Calliope turned behind them. "Mark, come on."

Mark, meanwhile, was casting his gaze all over, and this expression changed very slowly, from joy to a quiet sort of disbelief. He looked at Calliope, whose silver eyes and measured voice were doing strange things to his heart. He looked at Hollywyck, which boasted, without a word, of centuries of riches and land and prestige, against the farmers, carpenters and miners that were his forebears. He looked at Linus, whose magic could take everything away from Mark.

That was it, in the end, wasn't it? Hollywyck was built on it, Linus and Calliope breathed it, it was everything standing between their world and Mark's. Magic. And as Mark followed Calliope up the sloping path between the lavender and anemones and he watched her easy, graceful walk, he felt half filled with a confusion of joy he'd never known before, and half empty with the invisible chill of despair.

"**I just can't believe this," Calliope said, shaking her head. "How did you come all the way out – Mark, why are you blushing?"**

He started up with a guilty look. "I'm not blushing."

"You are."

He glanced away quickly. "Maybe it's sunburn or something."

"Yes. Let's go inside." Linus glared at Mark for a second, then led the way, or started to lead them to the kitchen door, but Calliope insisted, "No, come on, let's take him in by the front." Begrudgingly Linus agreed, and Mark was taken to the massive front door, carved with the ancient coat of arms of the Ollivander family.

"Amazing," was Mark's statement. "Are those supporters…"

"A squirrel and a beaver," Linus supplied.

"Our family never went for pretentious symbolism." Calliope added. "The squirrel because we stay in the forests, and the beaver for hard work."

"And the shield?" Mark leaned in.

"It's a pun. Remind me to look it up specifically for you later."

"It's – wow." Mark pointed to the bottom of the diamond-shaped shield. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I really don't know," Linus answered. "How about we go inside – Calliope? What's wrong?"

Calliope had dropped to her knees before the door, her fingers tracing the now familiar symbol of triangle-circle-and-line that was at the base of her family's shield. She turned to her brother. "Linus, have you seen this before?"

"Sure. It's the Peverell coat of arms."

She stood up. "I've got to get back to the library." This grave statement was met by some silence, then Mark said, "Always a good idea!" Calliope looked sidelong at him and gave him a slightly exasperated smile.

"Either way…" Linus stepped forward and pulled the rope by the door. Seven notes sounded on a deep chime and the door creaked open. Calliope entered first, then Mark, then Linus.

The hall into which they stepped was high-ceilinged and dark, with brick walls. After stepping through a circular room with a skylight, which connected to other areas of the house, they entered the dining room. On the table, tea was already set for three.

Mark looked at Calliope. "Did you –?"

"No," she said, "this is Scurry's work."

"Scurry?" Mark pulled a chair out for Calliope to sit on – he didn't notice, but he beat the chair itself to the draw.

"She's the house-elf." Before Mark could repeat that, she added, "A – a sprite? Is that what you might call it? She takes care of the house and its owners."

"An _elf_, you say?"

"Nothing like elves as Muggles think of them – say, Linus, call her in."

Linus had just bitten into a deviled egg. He chewed hastily, swallowed, "No, I won't. She's not little pet we can trot out."

"But he's going to see her eventually – why not introduce them?"

Linus shrugged (Calliope noticed how pale he looked, but decided not to mention it then.) "Oh, very well." He turned to the kitchen door, "Scurry, come out please." There was a pause. To Mark's unanswered question, he said, "Oh, she's coming."

Tentatively and reluctantly the diminutive form edged her way into the room. When she was all in, she trotted at once to where Calliope and Linus were sitting, right out of Mark's line of sight. "Yes?" she curtsied, hidden between the legs of Linus' and Calliope's chairs. "What did Master Linus call us for?"

"Scurry, what are you doing?" Linus asked.

Calliope swallowed a bite of sandwich, "We just wanted you to meet our new – houseguest." She gestured to Mark, but Scurry turned her head away from her. "We do not wants to meet him, Missus."

"What?" Calliope said. Linus chimed, "Why not? He's not going to harm you." (Mark was trying to see over the far edge of the table without standing up.)

"But Ma-ster…" Scurry's little teeth were ground together, "It isn't fitting for a – a common _Muggle_ to see the likes of an Hollywyck house-elf, and watching us work and all like a common ox! Please, Master Linus, don't make us discomfited so."

The siblings looked at Mark. "She doesn't want to –"

"I get it, Linus." Mark held up his hands, as if in surrender. "It's okay. If it makes her uncomfortable – I don't want to put her through it."

"Scurry, you are dismissed." Linus said, and there was a rush of tiny footprints – faster than Mark could notice, Scurry had vanished. Calliope looked at him apologetically. "I'm sorry about that. Normally she's very nice, but…"

Linus said thoughtfully, "I can't really remember the last time a Muggle would have been inside Hollywyck. No wonder she was confused – don't you agree, Calliope?"

But Calliope was looking at Mark with a fixed and inquiring expression.

"Yes?" Mark asked.

Calliope looked from him to her brother. "It _is_ odd, I suppose, a Muggle inside Hollywyck. But odder still is my Muggle friend – my _American_ Muggle friend – arriving at Hollywyck's doorstep accompanied by my brother, whose job and duty _would _be to modify the memories of people such as my friend. And even odder is the fact that I heard on the radio that you are both criminals wanted by the Wizengamot." She glared at them both. "I'm not exactly happy to hear that. How did you come to this?"

Linus opened his mouth, but Mark spoke first: "It was a rather dark but not very stormy night in Boston, about a week ago, Calliope. When I hit you with my car, and you lost your wand."

Calliope sat up. "My wand. What happened to it?"

Mark prepared himself. "I found it. And I've been trying to get it back to you."

_Not sure what day it is. Turpentine has brought me some more books to read. He gives me good light and a nice little chair. The books are interesting enough. But there's something that's been bothering me – I feel like I've forgotten something, something very important. But I'm trying to be like the Zen soldier in the story I read today – who could sleep with the prospect of torture because tomorrow had not yet occurred. Tomorrow, that's one thing. It's my thoughts of yesterday that are troubling me._

"My Lord."

Voldemort looked up from the leatherbound tome he was reading ('Mein Nacht,' the autobiography of Gellert Grindelwald), "Yes, Thorfinn?"

"My brother and I have done what we can. The guard is ready to talk, we think."

"Bring him to me." Voldemort marked his place in the book with a slim bracelet. "If the man does not fear me, he should be killed no matter what he knows."

As Thorfinn turned to the door (hiding his doubting countenance), Voldemort added, "And you and your brother get far too creative with your – psychological torture. Crucio works just fine for lowlifes like – well, like Mr. Hamilton here."

Jesse Hamilton had, until recently, been one of the chief guards of the Sycorax jail. Now his steps as he was shoved into the room were tottering, but when he saw the Dark Lord he fell back onto Turpentine and pushed against him. "Nononono, please, don't make me—!"

"This can be short," Voldemort said evenly, "if you cooperate. "

Hamilton, on his knees before the Dark Lord, reeled back until he was sitting on his heels. He looked back at Thorfinn and Turpentine, as if wishing he were thrust back into their mercy.

"Why don't you ask me what I want to know?" Voldemort inquired. "It's only polite." He looked into the guard's eyes.

Hamilton gave a choked gasp, and said, "W-what do ye want?"

"I want the name of the spell placed on the Sycorax, the one that alerts its wardens to when and exactly where the name of the jail is spoken. If you can give me the incantation as well, that would also serve my purposes."

("How long do you think this will last?" Turpentine whispered to Thorfinn. "I've only got my lunch break…" Thorfinn shrugged.)

"I – I don't know it!"

"Do not lie to Lord Voldemort." The speaker flicked his wand and Hamilton was swooped into the air by his ankle and hovered upside-down near Voldemort, closely enough for the Dark wizard to look into his eyes. After a pause Voldemort said, "The Taboo Spell. And you know the incantation. Stop resisting – or, if you like an incentive, stop resisting and your family will have your body."

Hamilton rallied, somehow. "This will never work," he muttered audibly. "You – you're just another criminal. You thrive on bullying, I've seen your kind – " he screamed. Voldemort was holding his wand back as though a taut string connected it and the victim. At length, he relaxed the Cruciatus curse.

"Don't talk about things you don't understand. Now, what is the incantation, and how is it prepared." Now Voldemort was exerting his will over the man, who broke down and, lowered to the ground again, began to babble what the spell required. "The first part is a map of the intended area…"

Meanwhile, Thorfinn glared at his younger brother (who was still periodically checking his watch) and spoke in an undertone. "Did you hear what he said? About us being too _creative_? MacNair was going on about it the other day…"

"And you listen to that leather-loving blowhard?"

"He said that the Master is impatient with us, and with _you_ especially refusing to Crucio anyone…"

"No Unforgivables on my wand, no one-way tickets to Azkaban, thank you very much. Jugson convinced me to it and it's a good idea. It's none of your business."

"It reflects badly on me."

"Too bad."

"And – and I don't want to have to sit there and watch one day while the Master teaches you the 'true' meaning of torture, you know he will –"

"I remain convinced that I am in no danger," Turpentine said calmly. "The Master has told me that he approves of my 'fancy' techniques – you see I've spoken to MacNair myself – I'm sure that the Dark Lord just hasn't stopped the rumors because it keeps us on our toes. Why do you think he delivered Ollivander to _my_ special care?"

"Because you asked?"

"And because I –"

"Do I need to make you two silent forever, or will you appreciate the delicate task I am attempting here?"

"Oh, we appreciate it, sir." Thorfinn and Turpentine slid as one into the shadows, quiet and annoyed with each other. But as Turpentine listened to the guard's now rather detailed instructions on the Taboo Locator Spell, an idea for a new "experiment" came to his mind – an experiment to benefit his own personal experiment. He'd put it to work as soon as he got home – presuming, of course, he didn't have to work overtime on account of lengthening his lunch break.

Linus and Mark's explanation of their story to Calliope took quite some time. In that interval, sandwiches on the plate had vanished, to be replaced by cut peaches, which had in their own time vanished to the sound of rapid, tiny footfalls.

Calliope, meanwhile, had frowned, folded her arms, started tapping one foot on the floor, and, towards the end, got up and started pacing across the long side of the table. "Few questions, a few questions," she said when they were done. "Mark, why didn't you explain the wand's connection with me right away? Ollivander is a respected name here – as soon as I came back to England you would have had a witness!"

Mark set his elbows on the table and sunk his head into his hands. "Can you imagine how bewildered I was then? Still am, as a matter of fact… I had no idea what do you, for all I knew there was a changeling lookalike assimilating into my life in Boston!" He paused, expectantly.

"There isn't," Calliope informed him.

"Ah. Good. And how could I have known that your family was respected? All I knew about you was the family emergency about your uncle – damned if I was going to crash _that_. And, for the record, I did ask if I could call up a character witness – I sent a letter to Andrew – but I never heard back from him. I was told only a Magical Law Enforcement official could represent me. Um… while we're on the subject, have you found out anything about why your uncle disappeared? Who took him?"

"We know it was Death Eaters," Calliope said, sitting back down, "And as for why…"

"Tess says they're going to hold Uncle for ransom," Linus said calmly.

Calliope rolled her eyes. "Of _course_ she would say that."

"Who's –"

"Our cousin. Hector's sister. Older than Linus by five months, and never, ever forgets that _he_ inherited Hollywyck instead of her."

"Oh."

"Anyway," She stood up. "I'm going to fix that as soon as possible. I'll write out a testimony to your innocence, Mark – just as soon as I finish my research."

"Okay. I can wait." He rolled his eyes innocently towards the ceiling. "Would give me more time to explore your library…"

"Yes." Calliope gave a smile. "I can see you're perking up already."

"Might I visit this library?" Mark returned the smile.

"Sure, yeah, you go do that, I'm going to change my clothes and take a nap," Linus announced, "thank you and excuse me." He got up from the table and left the room. Calliope and Mark's eyes followed him, then they looked at each other.

"He didn't sleep well last night." Mark said.

"Oh no – poor thing."

"Oh, um, yeah. Real shame. I had a couple nightmares myself," he hinted. But he saw that she was lost in thought, and not likely to bestow a "poor thing" on him. He changed tactics. "So…" Mark looked at the floor casually, then at Calliope's face, "how have you been doing?"

"Pretty well. Some high-stress things in the past few days."

"Mm. Know what _that's_ like."

"I've met some very interesting people."

"Really? So have I."

Calliope didn't smile. "I'm so sorry to have put you through this, Mark."

"Huh? What are you apologizing for? Oh, my being jailed and all… hey, I should be apologizing to you. I hit you… with my car. I really didn't mean it."

"I didn't think you did."

"Were you hurt?"

"I was bruised, but the worst was a minor splinch, on my hand."

"A _what_?"

She showed him the white scar on her palm. "It took off a bit of my skin, is all. It's a risk of Apparation. Most of them are much worse." She looked at it gloomily. "I do wish that I had my wand back…"

"Yeah. So do I. But – don't worry, Hector has it!"

"Pardon?"

"Linus left out that part when he was telling it – Hector came to see us right before we left, and he said that he had your wand, and had returned a similar wand to the courts. So you can go to him and pick it up anytime."

"Oh." Calliope sighed, not looking at Mark or at anything anymore. "Good old Hector."

"Yeah, I really liked that fellow. After I got arrested, he was the first person who spoke really politely to me. Even though I was a total nerd, asking him where his wand came from and whether he was born a wizard – he was quite civil."

"Oh – I hope that you weren't mistreated while – _did _they mistreat you?" she asked sharply.

"Nothing I couldn't recover from."

"But _did_ they?"

"Calliope, don't worry! I was a little – manhandled, okay, yes, but considering that they're _wizards_ and all, they could have done worse. But it'll be okay…" He looked at the woodwork in the ceiling. "I would have made a complaint when I was in court, but I figure a little manhandling is usual in any prison – especially makes sense when I think of a war on."

Calliope shook her head, eyes wide, staring at him. "I can't believe this is happening – to anyone, and least of all to _you_."

He paused. "Calliope, why didn't you tell me you were a witch?"

She was a little stunned. "I – I never even thought of telling you."

"Why not?"

"First of all, it's illegal in Britain without proper clearance."

"But in Boston…"

"Yes, America is a bit more lax about it, but I never even thought of it. You only tell a Muggle you're a witch if it's a life-or-death situation, or if you have a really exceptional relationship with them – like family, or spouses."

"Exceptional," he repeated.

"Our whole world – both of our worlds depend on it being a secret. You must have realized that by now."

"I would have kept it a secret."

"But I _liked_ it when you didn't know!"

"… I don't understand."

She gathered her thoughts before speaking. "This war – publicly, news only spread at the start of the summer, but I knew something was up before then. And it's been something that's really been weighing down on me."

He nodded. "I did notice that."

"And all my wizard friends tried to be helpful – but every time I saw Andrew, or Scalia, or Tabitha –"

"Tabitha's a witch too?"

"Of course, Andrew's sister – _any_ of my wizard friends, they would only want to talk about the war. 'Is anyone you know hurt?' they'd ask. 'There was an attack at Such-and-Such, I'd heard, do you know that place?' And I didn't want the war to be ignored, but, god! I was so tired of hearing it when I could do absolutely nothing! And the war has even spread a bit to America – the purebloods movement has caught on there,… I was sick of it. But you… you had no idea it was going on at all. I never dreamed you could be in any danger. You could make me forget the war because you didn't know about it in the first place. Even when I couldn't explain why I was upset, you were always patient with me. Those times meant so much to me – I didn't want to lose them." She sighed. "But it looks like I have."

Mark tenuously extended a hand, but the table was too wide for him to reach her. "It's not your fault," he said softly. "It's mine. I wanted… I guess _this_ is what I wanted. Adventure. Change. Variety."

"Danger? Life-threatening danger?"

"Well, how bad could it be?"

"Don't be flippant," she said darkly. "I read in _The Daily Prophet_ today that eighty-seven percent of wizards with significant Muggle friends or family members have isolated themselves from them or limited contact, to keep them out of danger."

"To keep who out of danger – whom? The Muggles or the wiz—"

"Both, but most especially the Muggles."

Calliope glanced downward towards her clasped hands. Mark leaned forward, eager to reassure her. "Look, I've a level head on my shoulders when I need it –"

"When you need it?" she repeated wryly.

"And I can take care of myself, up here I'm sure to be…"

"Mark. Please, I'm not insulting you and I don't want you out of the way, but you are out of your depth. In fact, I think _I'm_ out of my depth, but at least I have magic. You don't – "

"I can learn! There's a library here, I'll study every way I can defend myself!"

"But you _can't!_ Mark, there's only so much you can do – you can't splash them with holy water or drive a stake into their hearts!"

"Though that would probably work…"

"_Don't joke about it_. You-Know –" she stopped, took a deep breath. "Hold on," She closed her eyes and clenched her fists. "V-v-Vol- Vol-de—mort—you _see_? You see how hard it is for me to say it? The first eight years of my life were spent in terror of him! He killed my _sister_! And the man – thing won't die! There was something like a rebounded Killing Curse years ago, that everyone thought had killed him – we all _hoped_ it had killed him – but it hadn't, he came back and now –" She was stopped – tears clouded her vision before she even realized it. Instinctively Mark got up and hurried around the table to her.

"There there," he said, awkwardly putting an arm around her shoulders. "You don't have to talk if…"

"I don't want to _talk_, I'm trying to _tell _you," she said, inhaling deeply, not crying anymore. "Mark, you're not only endangering me, endangering Linus and even Hector by just being here, you are outmatched. I'm not putting you down, you are _past hope_. You will be killed or tortured at the first chance. Do you think I want to see that?" She drew away and looked down at him as he knelt on the floor. "Mark, it is my opinion that you have to return to the United States as soon as you possibly can. For your own safety, you'd probably be best off never even trying to re-enter the wizarding world."

Mark's face, which was hurt and overwhelmed, grew rather hard. "Do you think I should forget about it all, too?"

"Ye—no, no, I –" She looked away, "Don't ask me that, I'm not the one to ask!"

"To me you are," he said, barely thinking. He internally rebuked himself – it was almost _too _close…

Calliope clenched her jaw, her eyes looking beyond the trappings of the room. "Linus says that part of Obliviator training is detaching yourself from your – from your clients, is the technical term for it. _I_ think you could be trusted with the information, but the Wizengamot – or the Pentagram – might not think so."

"So you're trying to look at me analytically now?"

"I'm trying to separate _you_ and your situation. You're in so much danger – by being in Hollywyck, by already being as involved in the world as you are, by the fact that you're accused of stealing a wand…"

"I wonder – oh, sorry for interrupting…"

"Go ahead."

"If I could appeal my case to an American court. If that would be a legitimate reason to get me out of the country and take this sentence off my head."

Calliope paused, looking at Mark sadly. "I don't know. I don't want anything bad to happen to you, you realize—" Mark's face brightened a little. She scooted her chair back and joined him sitting on the floor. "—I'm only saying this for your own good. The sooner you're back home, the better."

He nodded. "But how could I leave you here, knowing that now _you're_ in a war? A war that I can't even follow in the papers?"

"Better me than you. I have magic."

"What if you get hurt."

"Mark—"

"Or killed?"

She crossed her arms across her chest. "I've been trying to not worry about if I'm going to be killed. I'm going to be wary, I'm taking every precaution, but I'm going to put energy into that, not into fretting over if I could die any minute."

He studied her profile, and finally said, "I guess there's no use in trying to convince you to come back to America with me."

She looked at him, her silver eyes sharp. "You wouldn't, anyway."

"And how do you know?"

"If you could, you'd stay and fight. That's what I think."

He nodded a bit. "I like to think so too. A knight-errant. That's me."

"But – and I mean this as your friend – you're a Muggle."

He took a deep breath. "I know." Another pause. "I guess that's that."

"I guess."

"To get home… I guess I could scoot across to Ireland, first, separate government there – at least, I presume so?"

"Yeah…"

"I could plead asylum as I run like hell to the nearest airport."

"But it's an island, Mark, you wouldn't 'scoot across' to it."

"Well, I _am_ with you."

"Hm?"

"Got a flying carpet anywhere around the house?"

"What? Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Books! And actually, Linus did say that there was one around here…"

"Yeah, it's from Dad's side of the family."

"Ooh, yeah, you told me once he was Moroccan, right?"

"Yes, but flying carpets are illegal."

"Might as well go the whole nine yards, yeah?"

"No. You might catch cold."

"If I had a captain along, someone to help me steer the thing, that'd be great!"

"Like that animated movie we watched?"

"Yeah – leaves a slow boat to China in the dust…"

"Or we could just use Side-Along Apparition."

"Ugh. I hate that."

"Mm? We get used to it after a while."

"Oh. Cool."

Both were desperately trying to choose something to say next, which resulted in a long silence, until Calliope perked up, "So, how about the library?"

"Oh? Yeah! The library! Let's go!" Mark jumped up and then held out a hand to Calliope. "Why, thank you," she said.

"So, what other rooms does this house have?" They started through the house.

"Oh, a large workshop in the cellar, a couple of parlors, a pantry, and a music room off the library – but no ballrooms, in case you're wondering. It's not a house meant for entertaining."

"I'm really amused that you thought I would be wondering about _ballrooms_."

"A lot of other old houses have them… but not us. That's a workshop there."

"Ooh…" He peered in at the door. "Has your family always been wandmakers?"

"Yes. Since 362 B.C."

Mark gave a low whistle. "You guys are… obviously good at keeping records."

"Obviously." Calliope gave Mark a little smile.

"Are you the only wandmakers around?"

"No, but you see, different wandmaking families deliberately decided to get married and unite their lines."

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em?"

"Well... it's a competitive field. Somewhere along the way, some one had the philosophy that it was better to join forces and combine knowledge. That's where the Ravenclaw part of the family kicks in, no doubt."

"The _what_? Are your family part birds?"

She laughed.

"I'm serious, at this point I'll believe anything."

"No. But we have family from all over Europe – the Aafjes, the Peverells - you saw their coat-of-arms – and here's the library."

"Allow me…" He stepped forward to open the door ahead of them, and when Calliope was through he stepped through, starting to say, "So any place around here for grand… musical… numbers…" he saw the library.

It was an older wing of the house, but generously lit, and cramped with books. Scores of bookshelves filled the walls and even jutted out of it. Mismatched couches and chairs were perched in front of windows and lamps. A vast fireplace stood on the far end. There were plenty of ladders, and a single spiraling staircase led the way to the upper level. The few parts of wall that weren't covered in books held paintings – windswept landscapes, chirping still lives with birds, and portraits that read quietly in their frames.

Calliope laughed at the look on Mark's face. "Very nice, isn't it? There's a reason that the Ollivanders have always been Sorted into Ravenclaw."

He was about to retort, but stopped. "I - still don't know what that means."

As Mark began to bury himself in history, and Calliope started to reserach research the symbol of the Deathly Hallows to the Ollivander family crest, Linus was upstairs, heading for his room. He had taken a brief walk to his mother's grave, and was now very tired, and very ready to sleep. As he moved along the upstairs highway, he glanced up at the old portraits of Ollivanders past, who looked down on him from their gloom and welcomed him in their own way:

"Been gone long enough, I see."

"What _is_ that thing on your chin? Are you trying to grow a _beard?_"

"I believe it's called a goatee, Great-Grandfather…"

"Where is your shop crest? Why are you not yet married and furthering the line?" Linus looked up. Prepping a retort, he inadvertently put his hand on the doorknob of the room adjacent to Calliope's.

At once he felt uneasy and stumbled a little. He looked to the door and felt an inexplicable dislike towards it – not as bad as disgust nor as mild as disapproval: he simply did not want to be near it. But it was an innocuous, inoffensive door – why should it affect him?

Having been thus unsettled, he hurried the rest of the way to his own room and closed the door behind him. He took off his cloak and hung it up carefully in the wardrobe, beside his old Hogwarts robes, complete with Head Boy badge – still very nicely dusted. Linus gave a sigh, took off his glasses, and tried to go to sleep.

Thorfinn took away what was left of Jesse Hamilton when the Dark Lord was finished with him. Turpentine, his brother, waited behind. He was clasping and unclasping his hands, excited at the new experiment within-an-experiment which had occurred to him, but he had a request. As the Dark Lord picked up _Mein Nacht _again, he approached, his head stooped slightly.

"My Lord, do I have permission to speak?"

The Dark Lord had always been a voracious reader, and he did not seem to appreciate the intrusion. However, he put the book down, fixed Turpentine with his stare (the red eyes burned into Turpentine's, and the Death Eater knew he had everything to lose if he tried to deceive him) and said, "Yes, you may speak. What do you want?"

"My Lord, the disobedience and arrogance of Mr. Linus Ollivander has come to my attention."

"Indeed. Bellatrix read it aloud to me today in the paper. I was quite interested."

"Yes. And I want him back. I want to interrogate him myself."

"But about the…"

"As for the Muggle, I think I know how best he should be dealt with. I request Dementors."

"Exactly how many?"

"Three, my Lord. Linus Ollivander is… a very capable wizard. I wish two to capture him, and one to incapacitate the Muggle. Permanently."

"I understand. And I approve. You may have your three Dementors. Ask Gibbon to arrange it for you."

"Thank you, my Lord. I promise you this shall serve as an example."

"I'm sure it will. And, Turpentine?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Don't lose any time about it."

Turpentine's eyes were bright and hard as flint as he nodded. "I promise I will have the Sending done this very evening."

As Turpentine left the library of Malfoy Manor, Voldemort opened his book again, taking out the bracelet and playing with it in his hand. Every now and again he glanced at it. It was a very pretty little thing. Amelia Bones had had good taste.

"_Good-bye, Debbie, 'till July." Benny, now at fifteen years old and having just left her fourth year at Hogwarts behind, hugged her friend tightly, as if to make up for all their spats over that past year. She had said good-bye to Debbie Martindale and Huo Quinn, and now it was her turn to pass through the barrier to King's Cross. Well, her turn and someone else's._

_Twelve-year-old Barty Crouch Jr., his first year at Hogwarts still in his every thought, would not be seen holding hands with a girl on the platform, even if the girl was his cousin. Instead, he locked arms with her and together they took one last look at the bright scarlet engine. When the border guard dropped his hand, Benny was ready for it and yanked Bartemius through._

_Their families were waiting for them at the end of the platform. As they hurried towards it, a small emissary came running up to greet them:_

"_Benny! Benny!" _

"_Little _Dude!" Benedicte_ slipped her arm out of Barty's and crouched down to pick up her little brother. "Oh, you've gotten so _big!_ And look at how articulately you're speaking, yesh you are, who's an articuwate widdle baybee?"_

"_Don't you think he's getting a bit too old for that?" Barty asked. "What if he resents it?"_

"_Oh, come on," Benny balanced Linus on her hip, kissing his black thatch of hair, "I'm cheated out of twenty month's worth of baby-talk, I'm going to catch up on it when I can. Yesh I will, Little Dude!" another kiss. Barty shrugged and, spotting his mother, sprinted towards her._

"_Mum! Mum, I want to invite some friends over for the summer—where's Father?" He hugged her tightly, then looked around the platform._

_Dahlia Crouch looked down at her son lovingly. "He's at work. He'll meet us at the theater tonight." She apologized silently to him, readjusting his Hufflepuff badge (pinned to his vest) with pride._

_Meanwhile, Benedicte was leading little Linus back to their parents. "Well," she said, "I've got my trunk here, and I've got the Little Dude, so I'm ready to go home anytime."_

_Philomel hugged her daughter but chided, "I've told you not to call him Little Dude. He has a good name and he should wear it proudly. Linus Fortitude," she reminded the child, who stared up at her innocently and nodded._

"_Oh, he'll grow into it," Benny said lightly. "Til then, he's the Little Dude."_

"_And you will grow out of nicknaming everything and everyone," her father scolded good-naturedly._

_Benny hugged and kissed her father, then, "Auntie Dahlia, it's so good to see you." (Dahlia was technically her mother's cousin by marriage, not an 'Aunt,' but Benny had Aunts in limited supply.)_

"_We're goin' to dinner an' then the the-ter." Linus said solemnly to Barty, who responded, "Hey, little guy. Good to hear that."_

"_Barty," Modeste addressed the boy as he took up his luggage, "Philomel and I are looking forward to hearing about your adventures in the last quarter of school. I'm sure you were at the top of your class."_

"_Well, I wouldn't have passed my History of Magic exam without Benny's help, I know that much," Barty opened his bag and pulled out '_The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga_,' handing it back to Benny. "Thank you again."_

"_No problem, 'cous." _

"_Benny's home!" Linus announced to the family._

"_Hey, I think we noticed. Could I hold him for a bit?" Barty took the toddler from her father, and those two were the first to leave King's Cross Station._


	13. Uninvited Guests

The Uninvited Guests

A/N: For those of you who used to visit the Old Sugar Quill (which I highly recommend, because it's one of the best HP fanfic sites out there, even if it is now defunct), you may recognize the shameless – _shameless_ – cribbing in this chapter from 'Merry And Bright,' the third part in the 'Interwoven' series – which is the best HP fanfiction I have ever read. In fact, let's not call it cribbing so much as an homage. A shameless homage.

Now go and look up that fic. You'll be glad you did.

And I would be amiss to mention my homage to another fanfiction, and neglect to say that this entire work is a borrowing of the Harry Potter universe from JKR. Tip of the hat to her!

* * *

Scurry nudged open the door, letting in a sliver of light to the darkened room.

"Master Linus?" she squeaked. "Dinner's ready."

The figure on the bed stirred. "Mrgl. Thanks, Scurry. I'll be down in a minute."

A few minutes later, Linus came down to dinner. He met Calliope and Mark as they were coming out of the library.

"Are you feeling any better?" Calliope asked.

"A little. That nap really helped. I can think much more clearly now."

"Good. Mark and I were… well, we were trying to come up with ideas for what to do next."

"What did you come up with?"

"Well…"

"I'm seriously thinking about going to Ireland, if staying here is out of the question…" Mark insisted.

"It _is_ out of the question," Linus answered, quickly combing his hair with his fingers.

"Well, then, Ireland is the safest choice. I can go there and plead political asylum."

"Obviously the next step for _me_ is to go the court and provide my own testimony," Calliope put in, "but I don't know whether it would be better for me to go alone, or if you two came with me…"

"We can't come with you," Linus shook his head once and re-adjusted his glasses. "Mark sets foot in the Ministry and they'll cart him to Azkaban."

"But I don't want to go alone…"

"What about that Obliviator that helped us get away?" Mark pointed out. "Amy Twist or something like that?"

"Amy Tweak. Good idea. Get in touch with her and she'll know where you should go… it'd be good to have her on your side. I wonder if I could come with Calliope…"

"I don't want Mark to be left alone – in Hollywyck or in Ireland." They had entered the dining room. The chairs pulled themselves out for the three of them. Mark whistled softly in appreciation.

"Hollywyck's safe. Hollywyck is one of the safest places for him to stay. You, too." Linus sighed as he sat down.

"Are you sure that nap helped?" Calliope asked. "You still sound very tired."

"How can you tell?"

"You're not supporting your own logic," she pointed out.

"I don't have to cross-reference _everything_ I say."

"What's for dinner, by the way…" Mark started, but he trailed off as a tureen appeared out of nowhere on the table, emanating a delicious, heavy smell.

Calliope gave a small, surprised laugh. "Bœuf bourguignon – of course! The traditional welcome-home dinner."

Linus served himself first. "Scurry's a real good egg."

"That's true," Calliope agreed.

"I rather miss having a house-elf, to tell the truth."

"You could have her stay with you in London," Calliope pointed out.

"But I really don't need a house-elf – I think it'd be a waste of her talents."

"But she misses having people around. Hollywyck can't get _that_ dirty if she comes over to cook for you on evenings or something."

"Er…"

As one, Linus and Calliope turned to look at Mark. He quailed a bit, but continued, "Why not ask Scurry herself what she would like?"

There was a pause, then Calliope acknowledged, "Oh, Mark, you don't know what house-elves are like."

"That's a good idea, really…" Linus said between spoonfuls of soup.

"But house-elves usually put the wills of their masters above that of their own."

Mark frowned. "Do you own her or something?"

"No, it's not that. She's bound to the house, to the Ollivander family. Well… We did inherit her from Mum, she does belong to us…"

"Yes, we own her," Linus said simply.

"What is she, a slave?"

"No, she's not a slave at all." Calliope insisted.

"But you own her, she's not supposed to oppose you, she apparently serves your every whim…"

"But she's a house-elf, she's not human," Linus explained. "The purpose of a house-elf is to serve a family. They don't have a purpose in life unless they're serving a family. Scurry's whole family, down the maternal line, has served the Ollivanders. Before Scurry it was Scamper and before Scamper it was Skedaddle…"

"But Mark," his sister interrupted, "the point is, Scurry is _happy_ to serve us. If we were to set her free, she'd be miserable. She loves us, and we love her. She's like a member of the family."

"That's what slave owners said too," Mark pointed out dryly.

"But Scurry –" Calliope made a frustrated noise. "If you saw her you'd understand. She's a magical creature – her needs aren't the same as human needs. That's part of why she refuses to show herself to you."

Linus lifted his soup bowl and drank the broth. Putting the bowl down he said, "Mmm. Delicious. But, the point is, what are we going to do about the trial and trying to get a re-trial? I still maintain that Hollywyck would be the safest place for Mark."

"I could stay here alone, if I had to," Mark agreed.

Calliope commented. "Linus, _your_ name was mentioned on the radio too. You're not immune to the law; you're an accomplice. You can't walk into the Ministry either. I admit you're in less danger than Mark is, but…"

"Is that Scurry?" Mark interrupted suddenly.

Calliope and Linus followed his gaze to the kitchen doorway. Scurry was standing there, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes wide.

"Master Linus – Miss Calliope, Master, Miss, Hollywyck is surrounded."

"_What_?" Calliope stood up at once. Slowly, Linus followed. "Who's out there?"

"Not who," Scurry shook her head. "Not people."

"Not Death Eaters then…" Calliope breathed.

"Are you _sure_ they're aren't people, Scurry?" Linus asked.

"They aren't. We knows it. We've never felt this before. They _terrify_ us. We can't repel them… Please, please see what the trouble is."

At once Linus was out of the dining room and heading towards the kitchen door, Calliope following.

"_Lumos!_"

"_Lumos!_"

Linus and Calliope lifted their wands on the lawn of Hollywyck in unison. He scanned the grounds, the holly fence, the grass – but she gave a strangled little gasp.

"What?" he asked.

"Look up," she said quietly. He looked.

"No way in hell," he said in a perfectly loud voice.

Floating above the hedge, circling in the air above them were three vast, cloaked forms with no apparent tangibility past their skeletal hands and their weighted hoods. Dementors.

"No way in _hell_," Linus repeated, his breath a fog. "Not in Hollywyck. Not on my watch."

Calliope clutched her wand and tried to think of a happy memory – a moment with Mark in Boston, maybe, or when she had been at Hollywyck with her family, or with Dora at Hogwarts – she needed to _pick_ one.

Suddenly the Dementor nearest to them took a long, rattling breath. Calliope felt its effects at once and started to hunch over without even realizing it. Another Dementor drew a breath, and another. Calliope heard, in her mind's ear, her own cries and screams, and she heard shouts…

She heard Linus say "_Expecto Patronum_." He didn't say it with a special exclamation, but coolly, calmly, without the slightest trace of fear. She felt the air grow warmer. She looked up. An unassuming little bird of silver and white darted to and fro between the Ollivanders and the Dementors.

Calliope realized she'd been leaning almost all of her weight on Linus, who was still standing steady. She got back to her own feet, saying, by way of an apology, "Of course. A nightingale. Like Philomel… Latin for…"

"I know. Callie, can you cast any sort of Patronus?"

"A cloud…"

'Okay. That should be enough to defend yourself if you run."

"Run?"

"Just run quickly around to the back of the house to see if there are any more Dementors. I'll drive these ones off."

"But Linus –"

"I'm doing fine," he pointed out.

Calliope shut her mouth, nodded, and then ran.

As she passed the kitchen door, Mark stepped out of it. He saw her running past, her wand lit. He looked around for any threat, but didn't see anything. He felt, however, the unseasonable chill.

He stepped onto the path carefully. He hesitated, watching Calliope run away. Suddenly, a thought struck him – or not a thought so much as a feeling of dread, of loss, of powerlessness. '_Go after her_,' it said, '_Don't let her go, don't lose her_…'

So he started onto the grass, following the bobbing trail of Calliope's wand. He could barely make out her figure as she rounded the corner and vanished from sight, taking her light with her.

Calliope turned the corner and raised her wand higher, looking to the skies, but saw only a silhouette against the stars swoop over her, drawing its exhausting breath. She ducked automatically – but after a minute she felt the cold dissipate slightly. She looked up and then all around for the Dementor, but it had left that side of the house completely.

Mark stopped running. He couldn't see Calliope anymore. The starlight seemed to dim. He felt another chill at his heart. '_What's even the point?_' it asked. '_It's not like she'll ever see you as anything more than … a Muggle. A stupid, weak, inferior Muggle…_' He leaned one hand on the brick wall of Hollywyck. He didn't even notice the fog cast by his breath. He leaned his back against the wall and shut his eyes. He remembered, more clearly than ever before, the laughs and jeers of the Sycorax guards, as they hexed him one way, then another, harmless, terrifying things. Later a guard had drawn his wand and Mark had flinched, and all the guards had howled. He felt the clink of the enchanted manacle around his ankle, the derisive "boy," the applause that greeted his verdict. He heard the hated, horrible, high-pitched voice proclaim him "Guilty."

He let out a long sigh, a sigh which almost seemed to rattle in the still, frigid air. His face was very cold.

Calliope would never…

Her voice cut across the silence in a loud cry: "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Mark felt as though a breeze had stirred the air around him. He opened his eyes to see that a faint, bright cloud surrounded him.

The light cleared his head. He – the core, clear 'Mark' part of him – had one thought: '_Get away_.'

So he ran. Shoving himself off the wall, he ran back for the kitchen door. His footing was unsure. He heard footsteps approaching and collided into Linus before he knew it. They both fell backwards onto the ground. The air seemed to get colder. Linus started to get up at once. Seeming to ignore Mark, he pointed his wand skyward. "Enough of this. _Expecto Patronum!_" He bellowed.

Mark did not see what happened next, because suddenly Calliope was next to him and taking up all his attention. "Mark – Mark, are you all right? Say something!"

She tugged his arm, trying to get him to stand up. He obeyed unthinkingly, his arms and legs trembling. "Ugh – my stomach…"

"That's something, okay, don't worry, we'll get you up, Scurry will make you hot chocolate or something, okay, on your feet…"

By now he was on his feet, but he immediately lurched away, leaning on the wall.

"Mark, are you all –"

He retched, then threw up against the wall. "Ah god," Calliope muttered, her face white. But she continued talking, "All right, get the worst of it over with now, okay, Mark, don't move until you're sure you're better, you'll be fine soon…"

('_I will never eat bœuf bourguignon again_,' Mark thought, his face flushed and hot, eyes closed.)

"Get him inside, now," Linus said. "I think he was their target. I'll see if there are any left."

"Linus, he's sick! I'm not going to move him…"

"I'm better now, better now," Mark slurred heavily, trying to disconnect himself from the wall. He swayed on his feet and retched again. He felt Calliope's hands on his shoulders. "Mark, I could get something for your stomach…"

"No. Stay." He dared to lean on her, and she quickly steered him back to the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

"Scurry!" she called. "_Scurry_!"

"Yes, Mistress!"

"Scurry, get me some chocolate from the pantry. Straight chocolate."

"Will baking chocolate be fine?"

"Any chocolate, Scurry, _quickly_!"

Calliope led Mark to the library again and sat him on a couch. With a flick of her wand she lit one lamp over the fireplace, giving her just enough light to see his face by. She took the throw blanket that had been splayed over the couch and pulled it tightly over his shoulders. All the time he watched her vaguely, without a real focus. Scurry arrived with a large bar wrapped in silver with the golden label _Honeydukes' Superior Baking Chocolate: Semisweet_ on it.

Calliope took the bar and sat beside Mark on the couch. She took Mark's chin in her hand and directed him to look at her – then said "Thanks, Scurry," as the house-elf was leaving the library.

"Nothing at all, Miss," the elf replied.

Calliope tore open the wrapping on the chocolate and broke off a large chunk. "Mark, open up."

He opened his mouth slowly, like a tired child. She pushed the piece of chocolate between his lips. He closed his eyes and took the piece. The pallor in his face warmed. As he chewed, she broke off another piece of chocolate, trying to control her own hands from shaking.

"And another one…" She coaxed, her voice weak. She swallowed hard as the full weight of what had just happened hit her. '_Dementors at Hollywyck… Mark almost Kissed… his skin is so cold… Linus not affected at all… Dementors at Hollywyck… We're not safe anymore… Mark's not well… Hollywyck's not safe…_'

Her breath started coming quicker and she felt like she might sob, but she bit it down furiously and broke off a third piece. She didn't realize how much of her anxiety wrote itself on her face, even in the dim light. She focused on giving Mark the chocolate, trying to fix him, to make him look normal again…

"'Op."

She looked at him again. He appeared to be almost choking on chocolate. He swallowed (with difficulty) and fixed her gaze. "Hold on a sec." He reached towards the chocolate bar on her lap and broke off a shred of chocolate. "Wait," he urged. He broke off a larger piece and cupped Calliope's face in his other hand.

She made a faint noise of protest, but he just put the chocolate between her lips clumsily. She tenuously accepted it. The moment her mouth closed on the chocolate she visibly relaxed and sighed. She closed her eyes and after she swallowed, she felt Mark give her another chunk of chocolate. And another. Mark's hand – still cold, but getting warmer – slipped from her hair to her neck.

Almost without thinking, he leaned forward. The hand that was still grazing her lips cupped her face.

She swallowed. "Mark…"

He stopped. His hands broke away and gripped the blanket she'd given him. He leaned back sharply. He didn't look at her. Like one in a dream, she took the chocolate and put it on the coffee table.

The door to the library opened. Linus entered, tucking his wand into his pocket, with Scurry following close behind. "I don't think there are any more out there – I had Scurry check. I also cast a few protective spells – the best I could think of. I'll research more tonight. Is Mark okay?"

Scurry saw the chocolate bar on the table and quietly took it away with her into the kitchen.

"I'm much better now," Mark said in a low but steady voice. "That's really good chocolate."

"Chocolate's the best cure after a Dementor attack." Calliope somehow had moved farther away from Mark on the couch, and she avoided looking at him just as he didn't look at her.

"After a what?" he looked at her now.

"A Dementor." Curious, Linus asked, "What did you experience out there?"

"I – it was horrible. I stepped outside and I felt it was cold and – and I just started remembering everything that's gone wrong these past couple of days. Everything. I felt like – a stupid Muggle. I kept remembering things without wanting to…" He swallowed.

"You're not stupid," Calliope said, just loud enough for Mark to hear. "I was so frightened when I saw you. They were all three around you – you were about to receive the Kiss."

"The Kiss? What are you talking about? What happened?"

"You're angry," Linus observed.

"Good," She said, "That's good. Hang on to that. Take some more… where'd the chocolate go?"

"I don't care. What _happened_? I didn't see anything around…"

"You couldn't see them," Linus explained. "Dementors are invisible to Muggles, though their presence affects everyone. They suck happiness and hope out of the air."

"What?"

"They drain people of any joy they're feeling, and leave them with the worst memories of their life. You – what you saw was especially vivid because those experiences were only days ago."

"Why were they here? And what do you mean by… by a Kiss?"

"I don't know." Linus took out his wand and flicked it at the fireplace. Yellow flames burst out of the logs there and filled the room with light and warmth. "And the Dementor's Kiss – I couldn't see if you almost received it or not – is when a Dementor… well… you see, they have a sort of a mouth, even though it's hidden under their hoods…"

"I'm imagining with all my might," Mark said flatly.

"The Dementor's Kiss is when a Dementor lowers its hood, and attaches its mouth to that of its victim. Then– well, there's no easy word for what comes next. The Dementor then sucks out the person's soul through their mouth."

Mark gagged again, covering his mouth. "God Almighty," he said, muffled. Calliope turned silently to look at him.

"That's why it was good that Calliope used the Patronus Charm – even though it wasn't corporeal, it was just enough to shock them, ward them off of you long enough for me to drive them off properly."

Mark swallowed. "Thank you. Thank you both."

"It's nothing. We did what we had to." Linus stepped to the closest window and glanced outside. "I can't believe they came _here_, of all places. They used to guard Azkaban – the prison where they were going to send you."

"They were going to send me –"

"Yes. Well, no. There are no more Dementors at Azkaban. They've rebelled since the war started. Now, they're running renegade all over the country. Or mostly renegade…"

Mark gaped. "Muggle-hating terrorists and invisible hope-sucking dementia makers? My god, England _sucks._" Before either one could reply, Mark added, "I mean, no offense, but all this evil magical shit is really getting me down."

"If it helps," Calliope offered, "The Dementors are only on the loose because there is a war on. Most of the time England is a very pleasant place to be, in my opinion."

Mark closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that about England. But I'm just… I'm really homesick right now. Really homesick."

Calliope didn't know what to do next. "I'm so sorry that that had to happen to you, Mark. If it helps – I remember things too. Everyone does. I remember…" she trailed off.

"When your mother died?" Mark asked.

"When she died – and the day that I first realized that she was going to die. That she could die at any time. I was young then – it was terrible. And Linus remembers – " she looked up at her brother, but her words faltered. "Linus… what did you remember?"

He looked at her. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you didn't seem affected by the Dementors at all. I was wondering what you saw."

Before Linus could answer, the door opened. Scurry trotted into the room, bearing a tray with three giant mugs of some hot, frothy drink. She went first to Calliope and bowed a little. "For Miss Calliope."

"Well, thank you."

Then Scurry went to the other end of the library and curtsied before Linus. "For Master Linus."

"Thank you, Scurry," Linus said, taking the mug, but not looking at anything.

Last Scurry glided over to Mark and bowed to him, as low as she had for either of the Ollivanders. "For the Muggle sir."

Mark smiled and took the last mug. "Thank you very much, Scurry."

"Printzen," Calliope corrected her. "Call him Mark Printzen."

Scurry nodded, and curtsied to Mark again. "For Mister Mark Printzen, then." Then, quickly and quietly as she was entered, she was gone.

Mark took a tentative drink, and found that Scurry had given him nothing less than the richest, creamiest hot cocoa he had ever tasted, flavored with a touch of mint.

Calliope drank deeply of her mug, then set it down the little table with a loud _clack_. "Linus, I mean it. You were just as close to the Dementors as I was. You saw them both, but you didn't seem at all bothered by it."

"How could you notice that? You were very upset by them, as I noticed."

Calliope took another drink. "Why wouldn't I notice? And of course I'd be upset. You know what I've lived through. I just _told_ you what I saw and heard – and more besides. I heard Dora telling me Uncle Servaas was kidnapped, I heard the radio broadcast that you two were criminals – you were just as close as I was, you've lived all those things too, but you didn't react at all!"

"I've had training to deal with these sorts of situations, Calliope." Linus spoke steadily, but he was gripping his mug of hot cocoa a little too tightly. "I can cast a corporeal Patronus, and you can't…"

"So can Dora, and she still gets unsteady when a Dementor is nearby, let alone _three_…"

"Adrenaline took over! I'm the man of the house, I had to protect everyone. What's wrong with that?"

"Linus, I've seen you around Dementors before. You have to struggle, because of what happened when you were so little…"

"Calliope." Linus spoke with the authority of a father. "I'm an Obliviator. I've been studying Occlumency and Leglimency for the past five years in addition to creating a corporal Patronus. I've led teams, I've gone out into the field. Why are you so upset over the fact that I could take out three Dementors?"

"But –"

"If it wasn't for me, Mark would have received the Dementor's Kiss by now!"

Calliope lowered her eyes. Mark glanced at her, then glared at her brother.

Linus said shortly, "I think you should be worrying less about my ability to produce a corporal Patronus and more about your inability to do so."

She took a drink of hot cocoa. "Thank you for rescuing Mark," she said quietly.

"You're welcome. Now – I think we can all agree that you two were both quite badly affected. I think you should go to bed as soon as you finish your cocoa."

"You're not my dad," Mark said with a slight smile.

Linus gave a little smile back, but it faded as he went on, "I'm going to stay up a bit. I'm going to work on the defensive spells around Hollywyck. Mark…" he paused. "We'll all talk more about this in the morning."

"Yes." Calliope stood up. "We will. Goodnight, Linus."

"Goodnight, Calliope. Goodnight, Mark."

"'Night, Linus."

"Just leave the mug on the coffee table," Calliope said. "Scurry will pick it up later." Mark followed her out of the library and up the stairs to their rooms. As she reached the landing, Mark said quickly, "Thank you."

She turned around. He was leaning on the banister, but smiling at her. "For the chocolate."

"You're welcome. And…" she fiddled briefly with the hem of her blouse. "Thank you for the chocolate you gave me."

"It's nothing." He was blushing very strongly. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mark."

Linus, however, did not go to sleep then. He stayed awake for several hours, even after Scurry had coaxed him into going into his room. He kept watch by the window, and only when he saw that the sun was coming up did he turn out his lamps, and try to sleep.

The entry hall lamp was the first glow of the dark house. Turpentine stepped in the door of his house and, as was his custom, he took off his cloak, and his shoes. However, he deviated from custom, however, when he took a large shopping bag straight to his cellar.

When down there, he had proceeded to set up a map of England (freshly bought from a Muggle school-supply store) on the circular marble table, much to the confusion of his ward. Servaas had watched him set it up and said, "May I ask, what is that?"

"No, you may not ask. It's an experiment."

"Oh."

A pause. Turpentine took out his wand and traced the edge of the map with it, murmuring to himself. When he stepped back, finished with the first spell, Servaas asked, "So how was your day?"

"Wonderful. Most enlightening. And yours?" Turpentine Summoned a lantern near him, to work better, marking a certain spot on the map.

Servaas put down he book he was reading. "Oh, the usual. I formulated an escape plan," he said conversationally, "And I read all your mail. I think some of it got confused with the next-door neighbors, or else there's a poodle very well-hidden around here. … That's actually my escape plan. I'm going to sic that poodle from next door on you, my good sir, and laugh while it chews your hair out."

"I'm concentrating, please."

Servaas was quiet then, and waited until Turpentine was done. Straightening up, the Death Eater walked over to Servaas' corner and relaxed on the cot, muttering, "How about that, old man."

Servaas asked, "Does this experiment have anything to do with me?"

"In a roundabout way, sort of, but not really, no. You won't be hurt or affected, I assure you."

"Does He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named know of this experiment?"

"I'm quite sure he has an idea of it – he is a brilliant, brilliant Leglimens, you know. I made no move to hide this from him, and he said nothing to stop me. He sees that this is for his advantage – or at least, is willing to wait and watch it unfold."

"Why? What does the spell do?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

Servaas looked over at the map. The laminated surface had a sheen to it that did not match the lamps in the cellar – but it was the sheen of a spell unfinished. "So you're letting it ferment, now, as it were?"

"Yes. You know, if it weren't for your age and position, you'd probably make a fine student for me." Turpentine had nodded, underscoring his sentence.

"Don't insult me."

Turpentine scowled at that. "I won't. I'll give you a job to do." He gestured to the map of England. "I'll get a proper easel for that, don't worry about that, but certain spots on that map will take on a discoloration – I've marked it to be a red dot – when a certain trigger is set off. Never mind what the trigger is. It may go off anywhere in the country. Trouble is, it will fade shortly after the trigger is activated. _Your_ job will be to – hold on a sec – _Accio!_" A smaller, un-laminated paper map of the United Kingdom sailed out of the shopping bag, along with a marker and landed at Turpentine's feet. "_Your_ job will be to take this map of England and mark the spots where the dots appear. I predict there won't be many, if at all."

"What if I lie?"

Turpentine waved his wand over the marker, which glowed for a minute, then returned to dullness. "Anti-Cheating Spell. And don't forget I can read your memories."

"Oh, I never forget that," Servaas said half to himself as Turpentine got up and approached the laminated map again.

Turpentine bent over the map, his eyes alight with the thrill of the scientific method. Taking his wand, he carefully wrote "Benedicte Ollivander" on two separate lines in shining letters where the ink read "The United Kingdom of Great Britain." He took care to hide the letters from Servaas until they faded.

At once the whole map fell dull again, but both could feel the enchantment in the air. "Ah." Turpentine straightened up and eased his back muscles. "Another experiment to test a chaotic world."

"Another?"

"The Dark Lord and I are two of a kind, you know. He has made so many vast experiments into the realms of Dark magic, of which I only know the littlest scraps. In his name I perform experiments of similar depth in the fields of Oneirology, Pyschomagery, et cetera. Not Dark Magic, of course, that's against my nature…"

"Really…" Servaas muttered.

"But the Dark Lord allows and encourages me in tests that I would not be allowed to _dream_ of otherwise. Because we're both _scholars!_ Or at least, I am rather fond of thinking of myself that way… all right. That's done. Now I'm going to ask you a few questions."

"As you say."

"You may enjoy it. Just a simple test of memory."

Servaas' voice was bitter. "Don't disguise cruelty with a schoolmaster artifice."

Turpentine's voice lost its amiability. "Cruel? I have not been cruel. Obedient to a cruel master, yes, but that is necessary. I am not cruel on my own. If you were in any other Death Eater's house, you would right now be tortured until your sanity stretched like a piece of gum, purely for a lark. I am not cruel. I tell you the truth. I feed you well, don't I? These lodgings are fairly comfortable. All I ask in return are some harmless, non-personal questions."

Servaas was quiet. Then, after he heaved a sigh, "Why not."

"Excellent." A writing pad and pen suddenly appeared. "Let us begin. Question one: what are the four distinct magical properties of meteoric rock?"

Servaas took his time answering: "Resistant to fire and heat, amplifies divination magic, completely immune to the effects of the moon, and it enhances luck and probability."

"Very good." Turpentine took some notes. "Now, if you would please name the characters in 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' and what their desires are?"

"They're, ah, Asha, who has a wasting illness, Altheda, who is suffering poverty, and Amata, whose beloved has left her, and then there's the knight, what's-his-name… no, I don't think he has a name. He's just born unlucky – Sir Luckless, that's it. Am I right?"

"Yes, you are. I have two more questions for you."

"All right."

"What are the three woods sacred to the British Isles and their properties?"

"Oak and ash and thorn," Servaas replied promptly. "Oak for power, ash for truth, and thorn for light. That's how I learned it, at its most basic. Would you like me to go into greater detail?"

Turpentine shook his head, finishing up another note. "No, no, thank you, that's enough. One last question."

"I'm ready."

"Name your nieces and nephews."

"Philomel and Phoebe, those are Andries' daughters. And the grand-nieces and nephews – Hector and Tess, and then, ah – mm – it's…" he squeezed his eyes shut, "… Linus! Then Calliope."

Turpentine nodded, slowly. "Thank you. Your memory is in excellent condition, Ollivander, all things considered."

For a reward, Turpentine brought down a new book for him to read on the history of Persian enchantments, and a potion, to help him sleep.

That night, Turpentine entered the cellar to check on Servaas. The wandmaker was deep in slumber. He did not seem agitated. Turpentine, before returning upstairs, whispered to him, "No one is coming to find you. No one will ever find you here. I am not cruel. I am telling you the truth."

_Philomel Ollivander had been, in her youth, a dueling champion. While in her prime, she had faced off against Cormac Prince, and he had hit her with a spell for which he went to Azkaban rather than name. Whatever the source, Philomel's heart was severely weakened by the strike for the rest of her life._

_Healers told her she should never attempt to have children; after her second successful Caesarean section, most of them shut up, although Philomel only disclosed to a few the fact that being put under sedation, and the heavy surgery required, meant that even C-sections, an experimental procedure among Healers, posed a very real danger. Benny herself learned of this at the age of twelve, on a specially allowed and chaperoned visit to her mother and brand-new baby brother in Hogsmeade. She had taken the news well for her age, neither denying her sorrow nor letting herself obsess over it. However, five years later, she did not take a similar piece of news nearly so well. _

"_You're _pregnant_? Again? _Why_?" _

_Philomel was a little taken aback. "What do you mean, why? It's a baby, it doesn't really need an explanation."_

"_But – I mean, why _now_?" Benny was going through a phase of italics and dramatic hand gestures. "You almost _died_ giving birth to Linus, if you wanted a third child, why wait so long?"_

"_I decided long ago," Philomel was very calm, "that I would never be running after two babies at the same time. There's a good-sized gap between Linus and the new one. And I managed his birth—"_

"_But that was five _years_ ago, Mother. You're older – begging your pardon. Wait, no, I'm not begging your pardon, you _know_ that."_

"You think I'm making a mistake."

"_It's just a statistical proof! Older women have more difficult births! And you – in your condition –" (That sentence couldn't finish.)_

"_Well, what are we going to do about that now?" Philomel, seated on a bench, folded her hands across her still-flat stomach while Benny paced back and forth. _

"_Ohhh – I'm not suggesting we, we _terminate_ it or anything, but I'm saying it's a risk! A risk that's a whole lot worse than the last time you did this –"_

"_I am well aware of that."_

"_Then why the _hell_ are you pregnant again?"_

_Benedicte rarely swore. The shout disappeared into a night's outdoor silence. _

_Philomel inhaled deeply. "This was not exactly a planned incident. When I found out, I was delighted, in spite of the risks that are possible, and the changes that are inevitable. How can you be angry, when this would affect you least of all the family?"_

_Benny had slumped on the bench, her shoulders bowed, her hands clenched into fists in a gesture of defeat. "But you're my _mother_," she managed to say. "You could _die_. I've tried not to think about that all these years…"_

"I know." Philomel was hugging her daughter before the girl even realized it. Benny plugged up her sobs, though a few tears escaped her (she was sixteen, after all.) Philomel drew back and looked Benny square in the eyes. "This is why I want to ask you to be the godmother to the new baby."

Wide-eyed, stunned, Benny had answered, "What? Me? But – after what I just said –"

"_I will ignore that, for now, for the simple reason that you're my daughter and I love you. And it does prove how much you care for my welfare – and the baby's."_

_Benny swayed on the spot, silent._

"_Bristow and I will be working carefully and closely in the later days of this, so there's no surprises like last time."_

_Benny looked around vaguely, possible futures dawning on her, her vision returning to her mother. "So – when's the due date?"_

"_Not certain, but early to mid February."_

_Benny swallowed. "You really think I'm the best for the job? What about Papa?"_

"_He suggested the idea in the first place."_

_Overwhelmed, the young lady looked to the stars. "Drat – I won't be able to meet 'em until March—if I can spare time – at Easter vacation—" She couldn't speak anymore. Her mother hugged her and patted her hair. _

"_It's okay to cry, dear. I know. This is frightening."_

"I'm not crying," Benny protested.

_A few minutes later, they returned inside, where Linus, who'd had to keep in the wonderful secret for an _entire day_, was waiting for them._


	14. The Painting and the Puppets

The Painting and the Puppets

A/N: Still a fanfiction, still got no legal protection to do what I do. I apologize for the length of this chapter; someday I shall publish chapters that are short. In the meantime, bear with my garrulousness, enjoy, review if you feel so inclined and be sure to recommend it to others if you like it!

* * *

The next morning, some time after Calliope had woken up, she knocked lightly on Mark's door. "Are you awake? Breakfast should be ready."

"Um – give me a minute."

As Calliope waited, a stern voice from higher up in the gallery (one of the family paintings) sharply asked, "Young Lady, what do you think you are doing, inviting a Muggle into Hollywyck?" Several other paintings voiced their agreements.

Calliope glared up at them. "Hush, all of you, he's my guest. Be quiet."

The door opened. Mark, now dressed, smiled at her. "Good morning! Were you talking to someone?"

"Not really. Did you sleep well?"

He kept smiling, but with less enthusiasm. "I'm fine. Really. But not really hungry just yet."

"Hm. Wait, I have an idea." She brightened. "I'd like to show you something."

"What about Linus?" he asked automatically.

"He's already downstairs. Come on." She led him to the double-doors at the very end of the hallway.

"Uh, I'm having flashbacks, back to the last time I opened a door without permission…" Mark said, trying to hide his interest.

"But you do have permission. And I want you to see this." She opened the door. "This is the Master Bedroom. Really, Linus should have it, but he doesn't feel it's his…"

"Wow." Mark looked around. A wide window facing north showed the grounds, and the forest beyond. A fireplace and bookshelf (empty now, save for a few pictures) stood to one side. But what was most interesting were the large bronze-colored curtain that hung above the fireplace.

"Is that –" he pointed it out to his guide, "Is that my last duchess, painted on the wall – looking as if she were alive?"

"Close." Calliope went to the curtain, and tugged on the rope, just a little. "Hi," she said. "Are you all awake?"

"We will be in a minute," said a voice from – behind the curtains, it seemed like.

"What's going on? A hidden television set?" Mark asked.

Calliope answered by pulling down the one rope, and parting the curtains. A baby's scream came from the painting. When the curtain was fully opened Calliope gestured and said, "Meet the Ollivander children."

She laughed to see her friend's expression as he stared at the painting. There were three figures, who were all moving and speaking: a boy of about five, who was covering his eyes, a teenaged girl in a cream-colored blouse, and the baby she was cradling, a pink-robed little bundle of whimpers, who didn't like being woken up.

The teenager was alternately shushing the baby and saying to Mark, "So sorry about that, but you know it's just been so long since the curtains were parted, and it's so _bright_ now…"

In the background was a shelf of books, partially covered by a dark curtain, and a small (still) painting in which the shapes of a violin, a scallop shell with a straw in it, and a human skull were vaguely discernable. Mark recognized the painting and bookshelf from a corner of the library. A green couch from another part of the library was in the foreground, but only the boy was on it now, sitting up and trying to look decent. The girl was pacing back and forth behind the couch, babe in her arms.

Mark shook his head a little, delighted. "Who _are_ you?" he asked.

"We're the – ah – the Ollivander children. Weren't you listening?" Answered the teenaged girl.

"Ah, but are you who I think you are?"

"This here is Calliope, or the Shrimp, as we call her." (A kiss was here administered to the baby.)

"An' I'm Linus!" the boy declared. He smiled widely and waved at Mark (he didn't wear glasses).

"No way. _You're_ Linus? Tell me, what are your hobbies?"

"I like, I like dinosaurs an' I like climbing trees. The graveyard out front is really fun to play in." He fidgeted and scratched the back of his head. "When I grow up, I wanna dig up dinosaur bones and test 'em out in potions."

"Mm! Muggle paleontologists aren't going to like _that,_" Mark warned.

"I'm onna find so many there'll be enough for pale-e-o- pailyentologists. That or I'm, or I'm gonna be a Healer maybe." He sat up and turned around on the couch to ask his sister, "Is she quiet? Can I hold her?"

"Okay, Little Dude, but mind her head."

"I _will!_"

Mark asked, carefully, "Do you realize it's been years since you were originally painted?"

As the girl said, "Oh, sure – why, hello, Calliope!" she waved to the other person outside the painting. "Linus, say hello…"

"Hi..."

"You were _cute_ as a baby," Mark teased Calliope. "The pink works on you."

"Heh, it doesn't anymore…"

"You should've seen her," said the girl in the painting, "Mum had picked out this white lacey poof of a dress with a matching headband and everything, for Shrimp here to be painted up in, and then Linus went and spilled blueberry juice all over it… so she got put in this cute widdle onsie wit a matching bonnet! Who's a fashion pwate?"

"Please, Benedicte, no baby talk," Calliope said gravely.

Mark looked from her to the painting. "Was it weird growing up in the same house as a painting like this? Do you in the painting age _at all?_"

"Don't get too philosophical with them," Calliope warned him in an undertone. "When he was fifteen, Linus spent a week quizzing the portrait of Socrates Ollivander to see if he was self-aware. The painting had to be removed to the attic."

"No, we don't age," the girl called Benedicte answered. "And we don't mind. Most of the time we just sleep."

Little Linus sat up on the couch, saying, "Yeah, my grown-up self says that I'm a s—a s…"

"Sus," his sister in the painting prompted.

"Suspended animation, yeah. I'm him, only I'm like in a little bubble."

"A bubble of time and thought, Little Dude."

"Yeah. 'S kind of fun."

"Well!" Calliope outside-of-the-painting said. "It's always a pleasure to talk to Benedicte, and Linus, and little Calliope, but Mark and I really must go downstairs for breakfast." She touched his hand briefly, and for a second Mark couldn't concentrate on anything else. "Oh! Oh, um, yes. It was very nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you too."

"Bye-bye!"

Little Calliope gurgled a bit.

Calliope stepped forward and closed the curtain, then turned back to Mark. "Now… breakfast?"

"Oh, yes! So, ah, _was_ it ever weird living with that painting? It's almost like the _Picture of Dorian Gray_, except –" he faltered, "except completely opposite to it."

She closed the door behind them quietly. "Well, it's not so weird for me, because I don't remember being painted. It's weirder for Linus, because he remembers a little bit of sitting for the portrait, and who he was then. I think maybe even that painting gave him his first fascination with Oneironomy and Psychomagery."

"Ah. Cool. And what about having – your sister there?"

"Well," she said slowly, "that painting's hung in Mum and Papa's room as long as I can remember, so I've never had that much access to it. Dora once asked me if was like having a 'clone' of Benny around – a replica, she said. I didn't quite get it; it's not real, she can't change or grow at all. I'm older and more mature now than she was when that painting was finished, or when she died. It's weird. That painting is just a relic, a memory of a time that won't return."

"The legendary time when Linus was called 'Little Dude,'" Mark said gravely.

Calliope laughed, but was silent until right before they entered the dining room. She asked, "Are you sure you're doing all right after that attack?"

"I – well, I had some nightmares last night," he admitted, "but I feel better now. I think the Scottish air is good for me."

"I'm serious. Are you sure that you're all right?"

"I'm fine. Seriously. Are _you_ all right?" he demanded.

"I'm doing fine," she said. "I'm more… I'm much more shocked that Hollywyck was attacked, really, than the fact that I fought Dementors. I mean, it's my home. And I really wonder who must have sent them. They've been renegade over the countryside, but for three to show up at this precise house when you and I and Linus were all here…"

"You can talk about this with me, you know," came Linus' voice, a bit muffled, through the door. Mark caught her eye. "After you," he said, opening the door.

They stepped through to see Linus hidden behind a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. On the table were several covered silver trays, which Calliope opened to reveal…

"Chocolate chip pancakes?"

"With raspberry syrup," Linus announced from behind his paper. "And sliced apples, strawberries and shredded croissants with chocolate _fondue_. With hot chocolate to drink, if you don't feel like Irish tea. I think this is Scurry's way of making sure that we have no lingering effects of last night's attack."

"How… sweet."

"In more ways than one." Mark picked up a plate and started serving himself breakfast. Calliope followed, asking her brother, "Linus, are you all right after last night?"

"I didn't sleep very well – I stayed up late researching what protections I could put on this house – but Scurry made me go to bed before I could implement any of them."

"Just as well, probably," Mark sat down with his plate.

"No, not just as well," Linus said, folding over _The Daily Prophet_. "Calliope's right. The Dementors did _not_ arrive here by accident. … Callie, what are you glaring at?"

"_The Daily Prophet_," she said. "That didn't get here by accident either."

"I have a subscription."

"If an owl could find you…"

"Look, it's a little late to worry about 'can a Dementor find me if an owl can.' Obviously both can find me. I wanted to know today's news. Today I swear I'll put the protections on the house in motion and that means this will be the last owl we get for a while. Happy now?"

Calliope fiercely cut apart her chocolate chip pancake. "Well enough."

"Any news about us in there?" Mark asked.

"Only a bit on the front page – saying where you can find a further story on our whereabouts. Not that there's anything new to say…"

"I should hope not," Calliope said darkly.

"It says that searches for us are… taking a backseat to hunts for convicted Death Eaters – that's good – though it indicates that Umbridge herself has a particular grudge against us."

"It says that?" Mark asked.

"Not in as many words. But it does mention that an Obliviator – that must be Amy – is 'staging her own investigation' – they don't frame it in very polite terms… But I'm glad of it anyway."

"Can I borrow that when you're done?" Calliope asked.

"Sure."

"Can I borrow it after you?" Mark inquired.

"Of course."

"So…" Mark took a quick bite of pancake, chewed, and swallowed, "who has control over Dementors now? You said they're renegade but…"

"Most of them answer now to You-Know-Who," Linus answered. "Which really makes me worry if one of them is looking for us…"

"They could have been after me," Calliope said, not looking up from her plate.

"I really think they were after me or Mark. Probably Mark – especially considering he almost received the Kiss. I expect Presumption is an atrocity to them, only slightly above Muggle-wizard marriages." He paused, turning a page. "But I deduced something. Whoever sent them had no idea that you're with us, Callie."

"Really?"

"Yes. I think they were sent to capture me, and to destroy Mark – sorry if I sound cold – but they only thought that it would be the two of us. A Muggle, and a wizard, who could be easily overpowered by three Dementors. But they didn't count on a witch being there, who could cast a Patronus of her own – incorporeal as it is. The point is, they don't know you're here."

"Could Umbridge have sent them?" Mark twisted his embroidered napkin in his hands.

"The Ministry doesn't control Dementors any more…" Calliope tapped her fork on her plate.

"Yeah, but I did hear something about that. According to E.C. in my department, it turns out that while Dementors still were under Ministry control, Umbridge was the one who sent two to administer the Kiss to Harry Potter."

"Why on earth would she _do _that?"

"He'd said that You-Know-Who was back. The Ministry wasn't happy with it. You weren't in England, so you didn't realize how tense it was between Harry Potter and the Ministry."

"Did someone repel them for him?"

"No, he could repel them on his own. Apparently he can cast a corporeal Patronus."

Calliope's eyes widened. "What? But how old is he? He can't be more than fifteen now!"

"I think he's sixteen, actually."

Calliope thought. "So she has no problem with summoning Dementors to get rid of pests…"

Linus paused, blinking. "Wait, how did we get onto this tack again?"

"I asked if Umbridge could have sent the Dementors," Mark said.

"Oh! Yes. Sorry. My mind's been wandering. I didn't sleep well."

"Maybe you should try and rest today," Calliope suggested.

"No, today we have a lot to do. We have to prepare your defense," he said, indicating Mark. "We have to put up the enchantments on the house. We have to…"

"Could Umbridge have sent the Dementors?" Mark said calmly. "I want to have that answered before we do anything else."

"No. Not, not unless she has ties with Death Eaters. And she's… no. I don't think she does."

"Are you sure? She hates Muggles, and you've said that Death Eaters hate—"

"Logical fallacy," Linus insisted, not looking up from his plate, resting his head on his hands. "Because X possesses Y quality, and Z possesses Y quality, that does not mean X is Z."

"She's been in the Ministry for many years now," Calliope explained to Mark. "From what I know (just what Dora told me about when Umbridge was a teacher at Hogwarts,) her loyalty to it is absolute."

"Yes," Linus assented. "Yes. And you can't be loyal to both Death Eaters and the Ministry."

"I wouldn't say that, Linus… look at Lucius Malfoy, for example."

"Oh. Yes. Him."

"But, she's not clever enough to be a double agent. Not from what I've heard."

"You're probably right." Linus said to Calliope. He handed her _The Daily Prophet_. She took it and scanned the front page. "Tell you what, Mark. I'll give you arts and entertainment, and I'll read the front pages. When we're done, we'll switch."

"Sounds good to me!" Mark took the A&E pages gladly and unfolded them at once. He scanned over the headlines of the front page. Radio broadcast announcements, theater reviews, art galleries… a small box towards the bottom of the page caught his eye. It was red and had little hands gesturing towards it fiercely – catching people's eyes was likely the intended effect.

It read, in small, plain type, "Public Announcement from the Ministry of Magic: Topic of the Week: Dementors." Below, in more Gothic lettering, "DID YOU KNOW THAT:" what followed was a list of facts about Dementors, some very interesting, some very chilling.

Mark gave a little start. He'd read, "Dementors are more attracted to humans who are healthy and in high spirits. It has been observed that they favor the emotions or even souls of people who are in love over those of people who are unattached."

He swallowed, his cheeks reddening, and swiftly turned the page before anyone else saw it.

He was greeted by a two-page splash of celebrity wizards in elegant dress robes, evidently coverage of some gala or another. On the paper, hands waved, smiled dazzled, robes flared, and, occasionally, camera flashes blinded the people on the paper.

"Does every photograph in your world move?" he asked the two wizards.

"They have to be developed in a particular potion – which is really a very simple memory potion." Linus explained, "But it's a very ancient practice. The ancient Egyptian wizards developed the technology first. By now the magic's faded, but when they where first done, the catacombs of their kings' tombs had many pictures of slaves in addition to pictures of the king, so the king's portrait would have someone to talk to."

"Mark met the portrait upstairs, of you and me when we were kids," Calliope explained.

"Oh! Very nice. I hope you liked it."

"I did." Mark sipped the last of the breakfast tea and put his cup down. "But I have a confession to make. Linus, I took some photographs from your flat back in London."

"Why?" He sat up at once, glaring.

"Because I thought they were – well, nice, pretty, interesting. I wanted to study them more later. And they seemed like pictures that meant a lot to you." He started to stand up. "I'd be happy to return them to you right now if you want."

"What photos were they?"

"Just a picture of Calliope, because I've never seen a magical picture before… You and Calliope when you were younger – there was writing on it, something about you –" he nodded to her –"being sorted…"

"Into Ravenclaw?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I remember that one…"

"And another photograph of the three of you on a big chair of some kind."

"The three of us?" Linus was a bit puzzled.

"Shall I go upstairs and get them?"

"You don't have to go get them right now, but if you really want to…"

"I'd like to. I shouldn't have taken them without asking anyway." He left the table, but paused in the doorway. "By the way, something I've been meaning to ask before I forget: Who's Harry Potter?"

There was a pause.

"Why are you both looking at me like that?"

"I'm sorry," Calliope tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "It's just – it's just – it's like I've just asked you, who's… who's…"

"Batman?"

"No, bigger than that. Bigger than that Camelot president…"

"Bigger than JFK?"

"Look, I'll explain when you get back, okay?" And Mark, nodding, left.

At once Scurry was at Calliope's side. She looked away from the door to the house-elf. "Is everything all right, Miss?"

"Yes, everything's fine, Scurry. Thank you."

"Miss –" Calliope bent down to hear Scurry better, "We is not sure if we should be telling you this, but we think that Master Linus did not sleep well last night."

"I know he stayed up late…"

"No, Miss, I mean, did not sleep. From as far as we could tell, he had maybe a nap or two, but those were short. Miss, we'd like you to help us in keeping an eye on him." She drew back. "Is we being too much of a trouble, Miss?"

"Oh, no, Scurry, not at all. Thank you for telling me that."

Scurry gently started to clear away the breakfast set with her magic. As his plate was levitated away from him, Linus remarked, "You know, this is the first time it's been just you and I since… er, since we got here."

"I know. You've been looking much more stressed since last Christmas."

"My job's become a lot more stressful lately," he said. "Incidences against Muggles and 'blood traitors' increase all the time. And people in Research and Treatment, like my friend Amy, keep coming across worse and worse cases. At least we've got a really good leader – T.R. He's the head of my division."

"You've written about him once or twice."

"Yeah. I almost wish I could send him an owl to clear my own name… but it's probably more important to worry about clearing Mark's name as soon as possible."

She nodded. "You're a hard worker, you're smart, I'm sure the reputation you've got will help you out. Mark's –"

"Got nothing. I know." Abruptly, he asked, "Did you ever write about him? I don't remember reading his name specifically."

"Of course I wrote about him, Linus, just not as much as some of my other friends."

"Why not?"

"I didn't think you'd be interested in hearing about him."

"During the trial, he described taking you to animated movies, and I realized you _had_ written about him."

"Yes. I have. Just not as much and not by name."

"Okay." Again, an abrupt shift. "By the way – Hector and Tess and I decided to close the shop."

"I know." Calliope stared across the room at a still life on the wall opposite. "I visited it in Diagon Alley."

"Oh. I wanted to wait until we heard from you, but Tess kept saying we couldn't wait…"

"I know. I know. And it's… I can see why you did it. I'm okay with it."

Linus was quiet for a minute. "I'm sorry that – I'm sorry that you had to be dragged out of your life in Boston."

She shrugged. "This was more important."

"And your friends…"

"They'll be fine, I'm sure. They don't have a war over there. I was… I was almost getting sick of living in America while this war was going on here."

"And here I was glad to have you somewhere safe." Linus gave an ironic smile.

Calliope glanced at him. "It's not – quite – that safe. There've been demonstrations across the country on a monthly or so basis – a Pureblood Supremacy movement that's taking strength from the Death Eaters."

"It's safer than here. And… well, I worry about you, you know."

"I know. But I'm staying here. I'm not going back. Now that I've seen what you and Dora are doing – now that I've seen what's happened to Mark – I'm going to stay and fight."

Linus gave a sigh. "I know."

"It's what Mum would have done. What Mum did."

"I know—wait, what?"

"I'll explain later," Calliope said quickly. There was a pause, then Linus asked, "So you'll stay here even if Mark goes back to America?"

"I – " Calliope faltered. "I hadn't thought that far. But America is definitely safer for him than England. Maybe not one hundred percent safe, but far safer. And there he could have Andrew and other wizards looking out for him, not distracted by Death Eaters."

"If America isn't safe enough," Linus said casually, "We could always send him to Canada."

"_Linus_."

"Just a suggestion.." Linus was thinking. He was in two minds: one part wanted to ask, '_Is there anything – anything other than friendship – between you and Mark?_' another part chided him, '_Who believes that? Umbridge? A journalist? No one worth believing. It's impossible. But…_' Modesty checked his tongue, but curiosity piqued him. He was about to say, "So, you and Mark seem to be…" when footsteps sounded outside the door. Mark reentered the dining room, holding the photographs, and looking puzzled.

"I found the pictures," he said in a strangely careful voice. He walked over to Calliope, holding one out. "Is this normal?"

"Is what – " She took the photo, trailing off.

"What is it?" Linus asked.

"I – I've never seen this before. And no, this is definitely not normal."

"Can I see, please?"

"Here." As Calliope leaned over, handing the picture to her brother, Mark went on, "But when I first saw it the day before it looked normal." He paused. "For wizards."

Calliope frowned "Some potion spill, maybe? But I don't see a watermark?"

"Maybe the Dementors did it?" Mark suggested.

"I've never heard of Dementors doing this. But I _have_ heard of them feeding off of portraits when there's no raw human emotions to be had. What about the other pictures?"

"Yes—" Mark had them in his hand and showed them to her. "but they're normal. See for yourself."

"You're right. Linus, what do you think?"

_A moment to describe the picture. It was mostly the same as when Mark had first studied it: a teenage girl, a toddler, and a baby on an overstuffed armchair, sometime in the 70's. The image shifted slightly in a recreation of the photographer's hand. So far, normal. Only one thing is out of joint: Benedicte Ollivander does not move. Her image was slightly blurred (wizard photographs have a longer exposure) and completely inert. Her brother and sister squirm, confined by her clasped hands (but they are just as happy as they have been for the twenty years since the photo was developed). _

Linus looked at the photo for a little while before asking, "This was on _my_ mantelpiece?"

"Yes."

He held the photograph against the light. "Could the developing potion have been faulty?"

"Don't ask me, I was just a baby when it was taken. If Dad developed it, you know he was good with those potions…"

"Wait a minute – you guys still _develop_ pictures?" Mark looked from one to the other. "Like, for everyday?"

"Yeah, of course," Calliope said.

Mark, looking thoughtful, said, "Okay…"

"The basic principle to understand here is that this memory," Linus said in an official, diagnosing voice, "has been suppressed."

"What, it was beaten as a child?" Mark asked (Calliope shushed him).

"Which in layman's terms," He ignored him, "Means the memory is still there, but inaccessible. Frozen. The bit of movement and spirit from its subjects has now been reduced to an inert, halted image. As you can see. But that by itself isn't strange; a well-placed Memory Charm can render a page of writing utterly unintelligible, strip it of meaning. It can also freeze a moving photograph. But this has been applied here only _partially_ – now _that's_ weird."

"Yeah," Calliope said, leaning over her brother's shoulder. "Only on Benedicte."

Linus turned around to look at her. "Sorry, who?"

The thick late morning light from the window illuminated the mangled photograph in his hand. Calliope looked at him with a startled expression. Mark was a little ways apart from them, arms folded, glanced from one to the other.

Calliope pushed her hair out of her face and said, "What do you mean?'"

Linus flicked his hands in an uncomprehending gesture. "I don't know who you're talking about."

"I mean _Benny_."

"I still don't see…"

"Oh, come on, check the back of the photograph!" She half-instinctually reached for it; Linus pulled away from her and read aloud, "Benedicte, Linus, Calliope, July 1972." He looked back at the other side and said, "Okay, so who was she, a friend of the family?"

Calliope stared at him, agape. "Are you kidding?"

There was a gaping, openmouthed pause, and Linus started, "Who –"

"She was our _sister_."

Linus was silent.

"She was exactly eleven years and eleven months older than you. A Gryffindor. My godmother."

Linus' brow furrowed.

"She had short black hair! She disappeared when she was nineteen and they never found her—"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come _on_," Mark said, "even I know about—"

"Shut up." Linus snapped. Then, calmly, "I'm the oldest in our family, Callie."

"Then who is my godmother?"

He frowned. "Um… wasn't that Aunt Dahlia?"

"Close! But no! She was _Benny's _godmother!"

"Calliope, calm down, okay?"

"Why are you acting like this?"

"I remember no such person."

"That's her picture right there!"

"It's blurry – it could be _anyone_."

"Are you accusing me of lying?"

"No, I know you aren't lying – mistaken, yes…"

"There's a –"

"Shut _up_, Mark."

"Don't talk to him like that!"

"Portrait!" Mark exclaimed. "Portrait! Upstairs! You're there –" he pointed at Linus, then Calliope, "And so are you, and a teenaged girl! If that's not Benny…" he didn't finish. Linus was glaring at him.

"Mark's right," Calliope said. "Let's visit the portrait upstairs."

"Who else would that be?"

"Well, can't be a 'Benjamin,' certainly…"

"Not Benjamin, Benedicte!"

Linus glanced at the picture, frowning. "Well – I kind of assumed it was Mum. Back when she had long hair, and it's blurry…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Calliope said sharply.

"Ridiculous? I was just stating the possibility!" He gave an aggravated sigh. "Look. Listen. Scurry would know. I'll call her in and ask her about it."

"All right, let's do that."

Linus gave a call and the house-elf appeared with a _crack_. "Yes, Master Linus?"

"Scurry, Calliope and I have a question. Did Mum – Philomel Ollivander – ever have any children other than Calliope and myself?"

Scurry opened her mouth, then paused. Mark and Calliope glanced at each other. Scurry thought about it a minute. "We wants to say yes, but then we can't remember any other children. It was only just Linus and little Calliope. And sometimes Tess and little Hector. But… why do we feel like there was someone else? Maybe a nanny? But…" she faltered. "Sir, we aren't quite certain…"

"Don't worry about it, Scurry," Calliope urged, "just a yes or no."

"We – we have to say no." The house-elf nodded.

Linus turned to his sister. "Do you need more proof?"

Calliope scowled at the floor. Linus dismissed Scurry, "Thank you, that will be all." She curtsied, and with another crack, was gone. Linus looked to Calliope. "What more do you need?"

"The portrait. Come on, we're going."

"Give me a break!" Linus exclaimed (though he followed her and Mark followed him.) "Are you now doubting Scurry's word? Why, is she insane all of a sudden? And no, wait, stop."

Calliope stopped and glared at him. "What now?"

"Portraits are just paint and a little memory potion spread onto a canvas. They don't even have to be all of the same person…"

"And your point is?"

"Paintings are incredibly unreliable, that's all!"

"This is a family portrait, Linus. You _remember_ sitting for it. It was done by Papa's friend Dewberry, you remember him? I never accused Scurry of lying or of being insane, but you have already accused Dewberry of faking our family portrait."

Linus frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. "All I'm saying is that Scurry is more reliable than a painting. That's all. Lead the way."

When they passed through the upstairs hall, Calliope stopped, pointed to a door, opened her mouth, and Linus cut her off. "Okay, stop, let me guess, that was Benny's room."

Calliope dropped her hand and glowered at him. "You don't need to be sneering."

Linus reached forward and tried the doorknob. "Oh, pity. It's locked. How convenient."

"I can still get in, there's a door in my bedroom, right next door."

"Guys!" Mark said as Linus was about to be even more sarcastic, "Let's just proceed to the Master Bedroom with minimal bickering." Calliope gave him a half-grateful look (the other half was disbelieving exasperation) and strode down the corridor – forcing the men to hurry to catch up.

They entered the Master Bedroom. Calliope pulled the rope in front of the curtain. "Here goes…" The curtains parted.

Mark jumped and exclaimed, "Where did she go?"

For now the painting only held the little boy in formal wear, sitting placidly on the couch.

"Oh, hello again!" the boy Linus-in-the-painting exclaimed.

"Mark, relax," Calliope put her hand on his shoulder – he was still a little spooked. "The people in a painting can travel to other pictures in the house."

"Yeah," the painted boy concurred. "The girls went off to the painting of a lake in the library, but I think they'll be back soon. Yeah."

Linus squinted at the plaque at the bottom of the frame. "Benedicte Clemence, Linus Fortitude, Calliope Blithe."

"Hi Linus!" squeaked the boy in the painting.

"Hey there, little guy," Linus said cordially.

"That's got to be _so_ weird." Mark shook his head.

"I think as long as you're here you ought to expand your vocabulary," Calliope suggested wryly.

"Marvy?" Mark attempted.

"Far out!" chorused painted Linus. "Oh! They're coming back!"

The girl entered the frame, balancing a cooing baby on her hips. "Two visits in one day! Can you believe it, Shrimp?"

Real Linus smirked at his sister. "Shrimp…"

"I'm taller than you are," she said, straightening up. To Linus, she asked, "Do you recognize the other girl?"

"No."

To the girl in the painting she asked, "You are Benedicte Clemence Ollivander, are you not?"

The girl paused, then glanced down to the bottom of her frame. "Um – well, I'm their older sister. I really don't need more identification than that. I mean, this is a painting of two sisters and a brother, we don't need names…"

"Then what are _their_ names?" Calliope asked, pointing.

"Oh, this is Linus, of course, and this is Calliope." She readjusted the baby's position, as if it was a sort of shield.

"But you don't remember who you yourself are?"

"No – yes, that's right – " the girl put her free hand on her forehead, distressed, "Oh, this is so upsetting – I'm so sorry, could you close the curtain? I don't – this is awful…"

"We're sorry to have disturbed you," Calliope said sincerely, and she pulled the rope to block the painting from the world.

There was a pause.

"Well," Calliope said at last.

Linus sat down on the bed, then splayed himself out. "That was very interesting. The plaque said the third member of the painting was a Benedicte Clemence – no third name given."

"Linus, it had to be her middle name –"

"I'm not finished. The girl in the painting said she was our older sister – or, more specifically, the older sister of the children in the painting."

"I.e., us." She said bluntly.

"But could not name herself."

Mark seated himself on the edge of the bed. "I wonder – if I may speak?"

"Sure, go ahead." Linus crossed his arms.

"Can a painting go insane? I mean, on its own? It seems to me that a self-aware entity with something of a cloned or copied identity, sitting in the same locked area for years, decades at a time, sometimes in total darkness, no stimulation – seems to me a perfect recipe for crazytown."

"True. But for your information, paintings and portraits aren't self-aware as we understand it. There's a famous book dictated by a portrait on that very subject." Linus tapped his foot in an annoyed way. But that said, a lot of paintings _do_ go insane – it could be related to the state of mind of the sitter, or the painter, or the quality of potions used, or maybe where the painting had to hang – but unless the 'real' Benedicte went insane, this has very little reason to do so."

"So are you saying you believe me?" Calliope said hopefully.

Linus screwed up his face. "Ugh. It doesn't match up, and I'm still not believing you. Scurry says no, my own memory says no – the girl could be a long-established immigrant from another painting. Let me think this through – a great ancestor of ours, all alone and half-mad from years in the attic, abandons her own frame and comes to a painting of two babies who need a chaperone. She convinces herself that she's their big sister and that she belongs. Kind of sad, but it makes sense."

"Doesn't explain the plaque," Mark pointed out.

"Oh, that's – what did it say? Benedictine clement? That's Latin, right, a blessing of mercy? Could be the name of the painting."

"It's not very _accurate_ Latin…"

Calliope insisted, "No, no, Papa named her because Mother was unconscious while giving birth. You know Papa loved the romantic names, he named her so because she _was _a blessing of mercy, both she and Mum lived when they might have died."

"Who told you this?"

"Papa!"

Linus took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, I'm so tired. Let me try another route. Mark."

"Yes?"

"You said that even you knew about Benedicte, the sister. When did you learn and from whom?"

"Calliope told me – it was January, I think? I was looking at a book of hers, and Calliope tells me whose name is on the flyleaf, and stuff like that. "

"I know what book you're talking about," Calliope said, pointing, "Give me a minute and I'll get it." She hurried out.

Linus' eyes were wide as he muttered to himself. "I don't know why I'm not recalling anything. Either her memory's been tampered with, or mine is, and I know exactly where I've been the last few days –"

"Found it! _The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga_, by Allison Bath!" Calliope re-entered, holding the book up.

"Ta-da!" Mark added.

"So, what's the evidence?"

"Here. The Ex Libris page. She owned this book and shared it with a – uh, Bartemius Crouch. It's in different handwritings, see…"

Linus' eyes widened. "Barty _Crouch?_"

"Yeah, they went to school together. Benny was a few years ahead of him," Calliope explained.

"Well, this certainly does push the 'related-to-us' idea…"

"Aside from the last name?"

"Wait," Calliope said, "Listen, there's one place you have to go…"

"I have an idea. Why don't you assemble all of your evidence in one place and _then_ show it to me in a clear-cut and organized fashion?"

She paused. "No, I'd rather show you one last thing."

She led the two of them out of the room and opened the door to her bedroom, saying to Mark, "I haven't redecorated it in so long, so please ignore it." They passed through it, and then she opened the door in the wall to Benedicte's bedroom.

Mark and Linsu both looked around the room, wide-eyed and blinking at the sunlight streaming in past the vermilion bed curtains. Calliope walked around the room, pointing to or picking up various items.

"Gryffindor banner? She painted this herself. This doll was a gift from a friend of hers who took a summer traveling all over Asia, Huo Quinn, he used to visit us pretty regularly. Here's a picture of her in Dublin – and another one when she was in Morocco, and one in Egypt."

"All of the pictures are frozen," Mark observed.

"That is very eerie," Linus muttered.

"_Here's_ the poster from a show she was in…"

"She was in _Peter Pan?_" Mark asked.

"– or she was a technician, at least, don't know if she acted in it – and these were some of her favorite books. Please have a seat on the floor."

They both obeyed, still looking all around. Calliope went to the chest at the foot of the bed and took out a cedar box from inside of it. She opened it and showed Linus the carved initials on the inside of the lid: "B.C.O., Benedicte Clemence Ollivander."

"Okay."

Then she turned the box upside down and unceremoniously dumped all the pieces onto the carpet. Linus looked at her, shocked, and Mark ventured, "Are you supposed to do that?"

"It doesn't matter." A large, dark blue cloth, along with several carved wooden puppets, painted in different colors, and several silk ribbons of different colors and sizes, and a little hourglass, plus a folded piece of paper, dropped from it. She picked it up, set the box aside, and pulled out the plum wand, holding it over the pieces. Mark and Linus leaned forward interestedly, not touching the carvings.

"What is this, a hand puppet movie theater?" Mark started to ask, when Calliope started, reading from the paper, "Once upon a time."

All the pieces suddenly sat upright, mostly little men, a diminutive centaur, and a little woman. The hourglass placed itself in the center. "… in the age of heroes, and the land of heroes – Greece."

The dark blue cloth spread itself across the floor, stretching itself out neatly as the puppets lined up on it, "There was a man, a Parselmouth, who made a deal with a serpent."

"What's a… what, a Parasol-mouth?" Mark asked.

"Someone who can talk to snakes," Linus replied at the same time that Calliope said "You can talk to umbrellas."

"Don't confuse him," the bespectacled man chided his sister.

"Oh, Linus, I'm only joking."

"No, seriously, what is it?" Mark looked from one to the other.

"Someone who can talk to snakes, like this guy is doing right now, see, he made a deal with a snake, there he is…" Calliope pointed to the cloth stage: a painted puppet of a man in black waved and gesticulated (clumsily) in conversation with a "serpent" made of wire and green silk. "'The serpent knew all the healing arts, and the man agreed to work together with the serpent to heal and make life easier…' Linus, does any of this seem familiar at all to you?"

Linus picked up one of the figurines, which trembled in his hand, as though it were made of metal and the cloth below was a powerful magnet. "Yes… it feels all very familiar, but I can't place it." He replaced the figurine. "Like a dream… please, keep going."

She resumed. "'But the man tricked the snake, binding her to the wood forever.'" She looked over her parchment at the puppets. "Guess the magic may have gone stale…"

"No, look!" Mark pointed. A white ribbon flew up in the air and struck the puppets of the man and the snake. As it did, the serpent puppet flew into the man's hand, and spiraled so it looked like it was twined around a wand.

"It's clumsy, but for a young girl, it's very impressive," Linus muttered.

"She wanted to be a toymaker when she grew up. 'And so,'" she continued, "'the man gained great powers of healing, but the serpent also got her revenge. She poisoned the wood of the wand, so that after a few years, the man grew sick and weak.'" The little man puppet wobbled around as the hourglass in the middle turned itself over several times (Mark commented, "Symbolic"). "'The man realized that he had to'…"

"Wait for it… let me guess." Linus interrupted. "He had to use the wand very rarely, so that it wouldn't sicken him?"

"Almost," she said. "Actually, what you're describing is what Asclepius does later in the story."

"Wait – Asclepius?" Mark repeated. "You mean the guy from Greek mythology?"

"It's not mythology, it's history. A lot of things are," Calliope told him.

"Get on with it," Linus said.

"All right… 'So the first healer passed the Rod on to his student after a few years, and the student, in turn, passed it on to another after a few years. In this way, the Rod kept being used, and no one would be sickened by it.'" The toy Rod was passed from puppet to puppet, stiffly, but regularly, as the hourglass tumbled on. Eventually, the wand passed to the one centaur puppet in the ensemble.

"And let me guess. Centaurs are real too."

"You're catching on," Linus answered Mark.

"'The Rod came to the centaur, Chiron. Now, centaurs, as everyone knows, have little regard for the rules of humans' – this is true, Mark – 'and so the centaur did not use the wand himself. He took on a human student – only one – and Chiron taught him well, and passed the Rod to him when his training was over. However, he did not give him the proper warnings about how the wand was to be used. But the human student had ideas. His name was Asclepius.'"

"You really pick up the Greek and Latin in this world, don't you?" Mark asked.

"Oh, sure. Just ask our cousin, Phthinophoron."

"Your cousin _what_?"

"'Asclepius was the first to see the Rod as a tool of profit, in addition to healing. His knowledge was so great that he was able to do without the Rod for most of his work, only calling upon its powers in the direst of cases. In this way, he practiced medicine for many, many years, and developed great fame.'"

A little puppet lifted a trumpet and provided a tiny fanfare for the little Asclepius. Then a puppet painted with a tiny skeleton was brought before him on a stretcher, along with a large gold coin. Behind him, a puppet of a girl stood behind Asclepius, and she tilted her head from one side to the other in apparent thought.

"And now it all turns into _The Nightmare Before Christmas_…"

"Mark, please. 'But one day, Asclepius was brought to a very strange case – the case of a man who was already dead. He was hesitant, but when enough gold was offered, he took on the case. His daughter Hygenia warned him against it, but he took on the case anyway. Then, on a dark and stormy night…'"

"Naturally."

"'He took the Rod and went to the burial ground to do the impossible – and raise the dead.'" She squinted. "There's a little note, 'Insert Ominous Music' here. 'But as he prepared the incantation, a bolt of lightning came down from the heavens…'" She paused until the white ribbon bolted upward and struck the figure of Asclepius holding the Rod, "'and killed Asclepius on the spot.'"

"Is that the end?" Linus asked. "It doesn't feel like the end."

"Because it's not the end. 'By some miracle, the Rod survived. Hygenia, although greatly frightened by her father's death, took the Rod up, and it chose her to be its next wielder. And so in secret, she, too, began to wield the Rod of Asclepius, and no one knows where it is today.' The End."

Calliope put the paper down. "Any questions, Linus?"

Linus picked up the little fallen figure of Asclepius. "It's… it is familiar. I have certainly seen this before. But… I can't remember who would have shown it to me."

"_You_ showed it to _me_, when we were young. You had to have learned it from someone."

"But… But I don't." Linus shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense. You're suggesting that something like a long-distance Memory Charm was placed on me, causing me to forget a member of my own family? That's preposterous." He looked from one to the other, the dark circles under his eyes very clear. "I mean, if I could be made to forget my own family – and I _couldn't_ – what else could be done to me?"

Taking off his spectacles, he covered his eyes with his hand. "Put them away," he said. "Please, they're making me feel dizzy."

Mark said carefully, "Remember when we first met, you said you could look into my head and inspect my memories individually, or something like that, if you really had to?"

"Yes?"

"Could you – do that to yourself?"

Linus' reply faltered like a malfunctioning radio. "If I wanted – to – I could try, I suppose - but that would be _very_ dangerous, to try and study my own mind with no outside supervision. Do you have the slightest idea? I could get lost in there! Or come out a babbling wreck!"

"I'm just saying –"

"Well, you don't know a thing, so I suggest letting me work this—"

"_Linus_. Calm down," Calliope said sternly, as she finished trooping the small puppets back into their cedar box. "Mark didn't mean to upset you. But, brother," she reached out her hand, and patted Linus', trying to be comforting, "it's clear that something has happened to your memories. There's too much evidence to ignore. I'm not wrong, but you… you are."

Linus sat there, silent, for a minute, but when his sister asked "Linus?" he stood up and walked out, pausing at the door only to say, "I'm the psychomagical expert around here. Until I'm _sure_ it's happened, maybe it hasn't."


	15. Benedicte Ollivander

Benedicte Ollivander

A/N: Sorry that this chapter is late. It's been a very busy weekend – busy entire week, in fact. There's not going to be a chapter next week, either. Instead, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas!

* * *

Linus shut the door behind him and hurried to the library. It wasn't an especially large library, but just big enough to wander. So he wandered, not seeing anything, until he stopped in front of a painting. It seemed to have what he was looking for. He turned and regarded it for a long time.

The painting's main shapes were a human skull, a scallop shell with a straw in it, and a battered violin with broken strings. The vast, wrinkled head of a sunflower tilted over the display, and a few pearls (from a broken necklace) were scattered on the table before them. On a childish impulse, Linus reached out one finger and gave the frame a push. The violin strings swayed, the soapy water in the shell sloshed about, and the pearls rolled to and fro aimlessly.

He heard Calliope's footfalls approaching. When he knew she was close, he said aloud, "_Vanitas of Human Emotions and Pursuits_. Ophelia Ollivander, painted sometime when _Vanitas_ was a popular subject. People liked to be reminded of how futile their efforts were, and how short and bitter life was. Why on earth did Mum and Papa put _this_ in the background of their children's portrait?"

Calliope shrugged. "I don't know. Papa was always fond of telling us, 'In the midst of life we are in death.' It's very true, isn't it?"

"In the midst of memory we are in oblivion," Linus stifled a yawn, scowling at himself. "Or insanity."

"Don't say that – listen, Linus, I remembered something. I was up at Hogwarts a couple days ago. When I was up there I met with Professor Burbage."

"Oh yes, I remember her!"

"She seemed busy, but called me back to ask me if I'd had a sister or cousin who'd graduated in 1972, named Benedicte. I told her yes, I had, and added that Benedicte had died in 1975. Professor Burbage seemed to not know anything about that – or, indeed, anything about her other than her name, House, and year of graduation." She stepped to the side to look at him, gauge his reaction.

"You're saying she had no idea?"

"Beyond what I mentioned, no."

"Ah. And she could have gotten those off of any document. She's been at the school since the early seventies, right? She would have known her, if this had happened… Another case, then, like mine, where there's _cause_ to remember a person, but the memories are gone." He turned around, scanning the walls. "What time is it? He began to stride out of the library.

"Why? What are you planning?"

"I'm going to Hogwarts to visit Professor Burbage."

"Oh no, you aren't."

"Really? And why not?"

"Because you're a fugitive from justice? Have you forgotten that?"

Linus stopped, and groaned, "Actually, I had." He considered as he moved into the sitting area before the fireplace. "Maybe Dora could get me into the castle…"

"And violate her position as a guard of the school? Linus, you know better."

"There's got to be _something_ I can do. _Some_ way I can contact her to find out if Dora remembers – no, wait, no, it's if Professor Burbage remembers – wait. I wonder if Dora has memories… or think she does…"

"She wouldn't," Calliope said. "Andromeda Tonks and Mum only became friends after Benny disappeared."

"I'm sorry, wait," Mark piped up, "Her name is _Andromeda_?"

Linus jumped. "How long have you been here?"

"As long as Calliope's been," he answered.

"Don't scare me like that." Linus fell into one of the cosier chairs. "I'm so tired…"

Mark looked from the brother to the sister. "But wait – _you_ would never have met either."

"Pardon?" Calliope asked, confused.

"You told me once that Benedicte had died when you were two, that you have no actual memory of her."

"But I _remember_ her."

"Not the same thing. You remember being _told_ about her, as I'm sure your parents gave you lots of stories –"

"Well, yes, that's exactly what I mean—"

"But do you have any memories of _you_ interacting with her?"

Calliope settled into a couch opposite Mark, shaking her head. "No. I don't. I wanted to, though, when I was a little girl. I really wished I had something."

Mark turned to Linus. "Maybe that's a clue."

Linus had the bright look in his eye of a tired mind at work. "That could be a link – indeed it could – why didn't I see it myself?"

"Simple," Mark said, and when Linus gave him a look of thunder, added hastily, "I mean, you're really involved in all this. Emotional."

Linus subsided. "Yes…" he said to himself. "It's nothing unexpected, that I've lost a little perspective… oh, how I wish – ah, nevermind. Okay, let's catalog this. One of you get some parchment and write this down."

Calliope rushed to the writing desk nearest her and opened it, taking out a quill and parchment. Dipping the nib in an inkwell, she said, "Ready to go."

"Okay. Two columns, Yes and No. People who remember a Benedicte Ollivander are in Yes. People who don't, are No. In the first category, you and Mark. In the second, Scurry, Professor Burbage, and myself."

"But Professor Burbage has _evidence_ of Benny's existence, as does the house. I'll make a third column, 'Physical Evidence.'"

"Mm. Good idea. But physical evidence means little. It could be faked, tampered with, or otherwise –"

"Suggestion, your Honor!" Mark interjected. "Dust Ms. Burbage's paper for fingerprints. See if any match up with fingerprints in the room. But who would ever want to fake all this stuff?"

"Obviously, someone who wants me to think that I had an older sister."

"And what _earthly_ purpose would that serve?"

"I don't know – blackmail?" Linus flailed a bit, grasping at straws. "Try to make me think that she survived, escaped, is living off in – in Liverpool with two kids –"

"It's a _lot_ more likely," Calliope overrode him, "That there's someone who wants to make you think you _never_ had a sister, who wants to make everyone forget that. That I'm right, and you're wrong."

"No," Linus said automatically. "I'm the expert here—"

"Which is easier," Mark sat up, "To suppress memories, or to fabricate them?"

"Suppression, by far, but a memory of someone you never knew is very easy to fabricate."

"But not the chances to learn!" Calliope insisted. "I was sitting _right there_ by the ingleside when Mum told me about Benedicte. I remember it was a sunny day, I was reading about ballet – I could probably find the book right around here."

"The physical evidence is all around you, Linus. And it all matches up with what Calliope says. She hasn't been here for two years, who was there to fake anything?"

Linus slumped over in his chair, his head in his hands, eyes wide open.

"Linus – are you all right?"

"Are you going to storm out of the room again?" Mark asked.

Linus said wearily, "I'm so tired. This doesn't make sense. Why? Why do you remember and I don't? How could I have – this isn't right! It's not right at all!" He stood up suddenly. "I'm going to take a nap, for all the good it'll do."

"Wait, no, Linus, hang on a minute." Mark followed him to the door frame, Calliope behind him. Linus turned around, leaning against it wearily. "We can't just drop the matter here," Mark protested. "And besides, you're developing a habit of walking out of the room when you're proven wrong."

"I just want to take a nap," was the reply, though his face indicated that a good Leg-Locker Curse in the speaker's direction would not be rejected.

"Well, I'd be happy to put my sleuthing skills to work on this case and let you rest, but I know nothing compared to you, and evil does not sleep!"

"Don't bandy about that term, 'evil,'" Calliope warned him.

"What do you want to know?" Linus asked.

Calliope asked, gently, "Who do you know of that would possibly attempt something like this?"

"The more important question is who _could_." Linus thought. "The person – if this person has cast a Memory Charm directly on the memory – the legacy, let's say – of a certain person, even to the extent of that person's family – no question, it has to be someone with Obliviator training, probably high in the ranks."

"Could _you_ do this? I mean, just as a hypothesis?" Calliope asked.

Linus' brow furrowed and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I don't know. I have no idea of the materials required, or the spells – well, a vague idea of the spells – I guess… yes. I think, with time and research, I could do something like this. Maybe."

"Ooh, wouldn't that be a twist!" Mark grinned to himself, "If at the end of all this, the villain was Linus himself, who'd erased his own memory, if we were in a story, that'd be awe…"

"Mark." Calliope gave him a look. "Now's not the time."

"Sorry, ma'am." Mark cleared his throat and re-addressed Linus. "Are there any Obliviators you know who are Death Eaters?"

Linus looked scandalized, and Calliope said, "They'd be in Azkaban now, if he knew about them."

Linus recovered his bearings and started, "How dare you! Obliviators have always been one of the most upright of the Ministry's divisions, the one which most closely has the well-being of Muggles at heart –"

"That's not necessarily so," Mark said evenly.

"Oh _really?_"

"I know _you're_ doing this for the right reasons, and I'm sure lots of others join up wanting to help Muggles, to keep them from the truth, ooh, they can't handle the truth," he took a deep breath, "but I can imagine a lot of them joining up because they like the thrill of it, the control, they like to keep Muggles in their place." His voice was sharp.

"You're presuming a lot, Printzen."

"I'm just speaking from my experience. Have you never encountered that attitude? Tell me, have you ever?"

The silence was taut.

Linus swallowed, looked away from Mark. "Yes. I've run into it."

Mark eased back – he didn't realize he'd been leaning forward. "Okay, now."

"But I wouldn't name anyone in my department as a possible Death Eater. What made you leap to that conclusion anyway? There _are_ more Dark wizards that just Death Eaters."

"But right now quite a few Dark wizards are jumping on the bandwagon," Calliope pointed out. "I read it in the _Prophet_ yesterday."

"Ah, yes, that most fun bandwagon of all, crimes against humanity."

"But," Linus reinforced his point, "even the Death Eaters take out their aggression on Muggle-borns or blood traitors – or Muggles, for fun. This isn't anything like their style; it's unlike any other crime I've heard of them doing –"

"Granted, they aren't short on imagination," Calliope said darkly.

"Granted – but why would they attack the memory of a teenage girl who died twenty years ago?"

"Blood traitor? Papa's the filthy foreigner who married an Ollivander."

"True. But if that were so, they could target _us_ –"

"The Death Eaters did kill Benedicte, you know."

Linus looked at her, surprised. "No, I didn't know."

"Maybe we'd better sit back down."

When they were settled into the chairs again, she explained, "Benny was in Edinburgh on Thursday, October 30th, 1976. The next day would be her twentieth birthday."

"Okay." Linus turned to face her and watched her with eyes narrowed. She eyed him. "Do you want to tell if I'm lying?"

"Just to be sure…"

"Very well." She turned to face him fully and said the rest to him, their silver eyes locked.

Calliope went on. "On that day, she was out with her friends from school, Debra Martindale and Huo Quinn. They stepped into a shop to buy her a present, and persuaded her to wait outside for them. She agreed. While they were inside, witnesses on the street – some Muggle, some wizard, it was an intermingled street – saw a figure in black Apparate directly behind her, grab her from behind, and Disapparate immediately with her. When Quinn and Debra stepped out of the shop, she was gone and an investigation was beginning."

For a second she broke eye contact. "They never forgave themselves.

"Benny wasn't the only person to disappear that day. Twenty-eight people – the Hallowe'en Twenty-Eight – including in two cases whole families, either never returned from work, or were not seen by their neighbors for twenty-four hours, or in other ways vanished. It was a shocking event, Mrs. Tonks told me, and the media covered it almost nonstop. The other twenty-seven people, however, did reappear, on November third. After a long tussle in the courts and with the _Daily Prophet_ – the twenty-seven refused to testify for anything – a spokesman for the Order of the Phoenix made a public statement."

"The Order of the Phoenix?" Linus asked.

"Yes. This was one of its first – of very few – public declarations. The man said that the Order itself was trying to circumvent a Death Eater plot. Mum, Papa, and the Tonkses believed them, but a lot of other people didn't. Of course, the Death Eaters never had a spokesman to confirm this. But the disappearance of Benedicte Ollivander – along with that of the Order member who was supposed to have been escorting her, Benjy Fenwick – just prevented everyone from taking the Order's word for it. About a month after Benny's initial disappearance, a search finally turned up something of her and Fenwick. They found a hand."

"_Just _a hand?" Mark's eyes were wide.

"Just a hand, with a wand in its grasp. They brought in Uncle Servaas to identify it, and he identified it as the wand that he'd given to Benedicte on her tenth birthday – cypress wood, unicorn hair. At that same time, in that same place, they found remains of what looked like the victim of an Exploding Curse – identified as Benjy Fenwick. After that, Benedicte was presumed dead, but Mum never gave up hope. She wrote to Fenwick's family, hoping for sympathy, but – well, that's a long story. Six years later, after Harry Potter defeated You-Know…" she stopped. "_Voldemort_," she said, correcting herself.

Linus winced. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm getting used to saying Voldemort," she replied.

"Well, stop it! Just tell the story."

Calliope gave him a little glare. "Anyway, the Lestranges were captured. Mark, the Lestranges were… in fact, _are_, among the most notorious murderers and sadists of the Death Eaters. They were captured along with Bartemius Crouch, junior. Our cousin.

"Barty Crouch senior, head of Magical Law Enforcement, was full of shame and rage that his son had been captured with Death Eaters, and he scheduled the trial to be as immediate as possible. Of course the court wanted a full list of their crimes, but they were given so little time, and the list was so long… by the time they had been finally rendered ready to confess, which took a very long time, there was only time for them to _name_ the people they had killed, or tortured, or enslaved. Bellatrix Lestrange was marvelously resistant to the Obliviators' work – so I heard –"

"Yeah, I've heard that too."

"—But Rodolphus Lestrange, her husband, named Benedicte Ollivander as one of his murdered victims. As I said, before there was time to extract any details, it was time for the trial, headed by Mr. Crouch senior. It was rushed, speedy, full of bitterness from Bartemius Sr. for his son."

"They let this guy say trial for his own _son?_" Mark asked.

"Yes."

"Don't your courts recognize biased jurors _at all_?"

"Now's not the time, Mark," Calliope said firmly. "Anyway, Mr. Crouch ordered the four of them to Azkaban, to be deported at once, with no further interrogations. Mum met him when he was leaving the courtroom, and very nearly begged him to delay their passage to Azkaban, in front of everyone. She implored him to interrogate the Lestranges, so she could learn what happened to Benedicte and have a body to bury."

"I remember that," Linus said suddenly. "I wasn't there, but I remember children at school telling me my mother had humiliated herself in front of Bartemius Crouch, _the_ Bartemius Crouch."

"What did you do?" Mark asked.

"Got my revenge."

"Good for you."

"You're a _schoolteacher_," Calliope turned to look at him reproachfully.

"Yes, but I'm also a champion of chivalry." To Linus, "So you remember all that! That's good. Go on, Miss Ollivander."

"Well – that's really it," she said, looking between them. "Bartemius Crouch refused Mum – his own cousin – in front of everyone. I wasn't there, but I heard it on the radio. Mrs. Tonks went with her, and told me later how it was… Aunt Dahlia was fainting on his arm, and everyone there had applauded the verdict. You have _no_ idea how bitterly the Lestranges were hated, so everyone was looking at Mum with this scorn, like, '_You don't want the Lestranges in Azkaban?_' Mrs. Tonks took her outside, and away from the crowd, and Mum – she was defeated.

"In those days, she met a lot with Andromeda Tonks – you could say that these tragedies were what brought them together. Mum was sick of the media coverage of Benny's disappearance, the constant lack of answers, and Mrs. Tonks – of course – Bellatrix Lestrange's sister – not a lot of sympathy. And – that's pretty much it. That's what happened to Benedicte."

"Death Eaters. Okay. But Rodolphus Lestrange never trained as an Obliviator, he was never one of us."

Calliope asked, "But, is there any one you know of who trained as an Obliviator, but never joined?"

"Oh, there's a few of those. There _was_ Gilderoy Lockhart…"

"He was an _Obliviator?_"

"_Trained_ as one, never officially indoctrinated! We don't like to talk about it – proof of his skill, he cast a Memory Charm on a defunct wand and it backfired, now he's in St. Mungo's."

"Oh. Ouch. He'd never do this, anyway… unless he was a lot more malicious than we all thought…"

"Wait, who is this guy? What should I know about him?"

"He was a gentleman adventurer whose whole bibliography turned out to be a pack of lies," Linus quipped.

"Oh. Is that all?" Mark sat back. "There aren't any other would-be Obliviators who are, um, teaching, or writing maybe? … Linus, you're getting a strange look on your face."

Linus, before answering, took off his glasses and wiped the lenses on the hem of his vest. "There _is_ one. A teacher. He was training right out of Hogwarts, supposedly he was a very skilled Leglimens and Occlumens from the start – but right after the Dark Lord's fall he dropped out and went straight to Hogwarts. He was convicted of being a Death Eater – actually, I think he confessed to being one and was cleared by the Wizengamot."

"Who?" Calliope asked.

"Severus Snape."

"Professor Snape?"

"Yes."

"But – he's in the Order now! Dora told me so."

"Really?"

"You know, wait, I was just thinking," Mark interrupted them, "There's no reason for the perp to be a Death Eater, just because they were the cause of Benny's original demise. Of course a person could pursue evil –"

"Say Dark Magic. It's more accurate."

"Okay sir, Dark Magic on their own time, without answering to a higher authority."

"_You_ were the one who wanted to know of any Death Eater Obliviators," Calliope pointed out.

"Well, that's because I'm kind of short sighted. I assumed that if we're the protagonists, they're the antagonists." Mark shrugged.

"Wait, guys, I'm remembering something." Linus adjusted his spectacles. "Severus Snape. Child of Eileen Prince, right?"

"Um – sure, why not?"

"That's it, I know I'm right – Eileen Prince, younger sister of Cormac Prince, the duelist who went to Azkaban for use of an illegal curse against Mum in a duel."

"Yeah…"

Linus sat up a bit. "And it was _Eileen _Prince who had to pay for his trial, Eileen Prince who'd been dependent on him all these years. She married – somebody, I don't know who –"

"Someone named Snape?" Mark offered innocently.

"A real nobody, and produced Severus Snape, who _still_ lives in poverty and ignominy, because of what his uncle did to Philomel Ollivander."

Linus let that conclusion suspend itself dramatically, his hands extended. Calliope wasn't impressed. "So _this _is his revenge?"

Mark agreed. "What, he thinks that if Philomel is erased from history, one child at a time, that he can waltz into the banks and collect his money?"

"Well – maybe. He's the first person with the training, the questionable alignment, and something of a motivation. Why else would anyone want to do this to a person – not only kill her in the springtime of her life, but erase her reputation too? Who could hate Benedicte Ollivander so much? What could she have done?"

"It just occurred to me," Calliope said thoughtfully, "that we have no proof that Benedicte is the only victim of this – Mass-Obliviation. There could be more victims, similar situations, but how would any of us know?"

All three shuddered a little.

"There's still the question of why _you_ remember, and I don't," Linus yawned and didn't bother disguising it. "Mark. When you took the photo from my flat, was it in its normal state?"

"Yes, it was fine."

"Good. So we have a timeline." Calliope nodded.

"The game's afoot!" Mark declared in his best British voice.

"I knew you were going to say that."

"No, the game's not really afoot," Linus said dully. "That's still a very vague timeline to work with. What do we know of what happened in the past week? Very little. And we still have only five people that we've polled to see if they remember – one of whom doesn't really count." He looked pointedly at Mark. "And I'm still exhausted. I'm fading out here. I think I really had better take a nap."

"Okay."

"Go on, then. Sorry we kept you awake."

When Linus closed the library door behind him, he could hear Mark and Calliope resume the conversation softly. Wearily he climbed the staircase towards his room. Blasted good idea those Muggles had, for escalators – or was it elevators? He had always confused them in school.

This wasn't nearly a sizable enough population. He _had_ to interrogate teachers, Dora, those people Calliope had named – Debra Martindale and Huo Quinn – maybe Papa, if he could be reached. Would the spell be able to cross the island of England, the English Channel, _and_ a good segment of France before petering out? A spell to make a place Unplottable worked all over the world: one shouldn't be able to locate Hogwarts School on a map or plot it out by virtue of being in Mongolia. But, Linus reasoned, that's because work in Unplottability drives magic right down to the foundation of the building, as opposed to spreading it over a vast area.

"But I can't let this just rest! What can I do?" He entered his own room, papered in blue and grey, with a large and well-used desk by the window. Everything was precise and familiar, exactly where it was supposed to be. This, at least, was the world he knew. He shook his head.

"It's all wrong. Everything's wrong."

"I'm sorry."

"What for?" Calliope turned to look at Mark.

"I mean, this must be hard for you to talk about. Such an awful thing to happen…"

"It is – I've never talked about that time in-depth with anyone before, except Dora. And to be telling _you_ – you're from a completely different life of mine, both American _and_ Muggle. It's – the last thing I could have ever imagined."

"That's me, a living conundrum," Mark said airily. In his head: '_Then why did you remain friends with me?_' Out loud: "Do you want to change the subject?"

"_Please_." Calliope sighed. "I'm just spent and I don't want to think about it anymore. What do you want to do?"

Mark shrugged. Looking around, he remembered hearing about a music room somewhere in the house. His mind, wandering, concocted a fanciful vision of himself in a silk cravat and tails, on some snazzy piano, and Calliope in a red silk dress, and a spirited duet of '_Slow Boat to China_,' followed by…

"Mark?"

"What?" He snapped back to reality.

"What are you thinking about? You're smiling."

"Oh – um, nothing, I, just, um, remembered the music room."

"Yes?"

"Well, I wondered if you have a piano… not that I play, but, it's a thought."

"I play a little, but Linus is the real pianist of the family."

"Oh." ('_Slow Boat to China_' suddenly became a lot more like '_Phantom of the Opera_.') "Well, in that case – any books you'd recommend from the library?"

"You just can't be sated, can you?"

"Well, can you blame me? I want to know everything! About ghosts, the Bermuda triangle, I read a suggestion the other day that Mike Fink of the Mississippi was a wizard, and an ani-Animagus?"

"Animagus, yes."

"I want do know about those things, too, and Shakespeare."

They spent the rest of the day in the library, talking and reading in silence. Linus spent most of the rest of the day in his room, and he forgot to raise new magical defenses around Hollywyck. '_I'll do them tomorrow_,' he thought, as he pored over his books, '_after I make a few investigations_…'

It was night at Hollywyck.

Mark had changed into his U Penn shirt and sweatpants, and turned off all the lamps in his room except the one by his bedside. He'd collapsed onto the bed and sighed, "This is so insane…" and then jumped back up, marched to the bedroom mirror, and demanded of it, "Are you sentient?"

No answer came, so he leaned back against the dresser and looked at himself humorlessly. "All the adventure I want, eh?" He began to pace around the room. "I am so out of my league here. Dammit, Andy was right – I'm only a dead weight. I'm a wanted criminal! How do I explain _that_ to Mom and Dad?"

He was silent then for a minute. "I was supposed to call them when I got back home. What if they call Andy or Bridget? What will they – they'll be so worried…"

Mark took another turn around the room. "I've got to go home – back to my normal life. Man, the school year's begun by now, I'll be out of luck – " He opened the window. The moon was a bright gibbous in the sky.

"But – I don't want to leave." He looked out over the forest, probably full of magical plants and creatures and graves whose stories he'd never know. He sank deeper into silent thought. A few minutes later, a blush crept up his neck and face.

With surprising violence he closed the window. "And forget _that_," he said to the now-still air, "You won't have a chance there. You're lucky to be her friend." He fell back onto his bed, staring upwards. The blush eventually faded, to be replaced by a softly settling melancholy. He propped himself up: "Well, tomorrow is another day," and turned out the light.

Calliope went to sleep quite quickly.

Directly across the hall from her, Linus was hunched over on his bed, as close to his bedside lamp as he could get, with several books stocked up around him. He didn't get to sleep properly until the wee hours, when he just piled his books by his bedside and took one last look at the cloak hanging over his chair. Then he turned off the light and forced himself to rest, as exhausted as a stepping-stone.

His last conscious thought, which he would remember in the morning, was that perhaps his nightmares and insomnia were traceable to having had such a prevalent force in his early life suppressed to his memory. He muttered something about how that made sense, and then, an hour later, muttered that he needed a sleeping potion.

Calliope woke up later that night, and a fit of wakefulness provoked her to attempt the Patronus spell for about forty-five straight minutes. Each time, she produced a large, semitransparent fog – but at least, it appeared to be a fog with _intentions_, a tenacity of purpose seldom seen in the typical fog.

Once she had sufficiently fatigued herself, she fell back onto her bed to try and sleep again, but her mind was still swarming with too many thoughts. With a sigh of "_Lumos_," she turned on a lamp on the wall and reached for her denim satchel, sitting on the floor by her bed. Calliope took out her journal, where she'd stored some photographs, and looked at them contemplatively. Benny at Hollywyck – her parents' wedding – she and Mark, reading books silently in a café – herself with Uncle Servaas outside the wand shop. She studied it, huddled against the wall, as close to the light as she could get.

"Poor Uncle Servaas," she whispered, as the manikin in the photograph smiled and nodded gravely at the camera. It had been a bright, crisp February seventh, a very nice day for a birthday. Calliope brightened after a moment. "At least my wand's not in the sewers. That's a good thing."

But she leaned back on the bed and counted on her fingers, "There's one, two, five Ollivanders by blood alive in England today, assuming the best about Uncle Servaas. One of us has been captured, and one's memory has been erased, within a few weeks of each other – by the same person?" She paused. "Hm. _That_ didn't occur to me before. Uncle was captured, and Benny was erased – what if his capture _allowed_ that?" She turned off the lamp and settled back onto the bed. "I'll have to share that thought with Linus and Mark… tomorrow. Yes."

At last, she fell back asleep.

It had been a very, very exhausting day at work.

Turpentine came home rather late and tired, and had grumbled at his bathroom mirror that his job shouldn't be this hard. "I'm a god-cursed Death Eater," he told his reflection. "You think the others would be more considerate, and not leave such a Muggle-addled mess for me to clean up. God, I hate them. Depraved lunatics…"

Servaas hardly looked up when he walked in. "You're quite late today," he said, in his weak, polite voice. "Nothing wrong at the office, I hope?"

"Nothing's wrong outside of the catastrophes happening everywhere… I just, sometimes can't believe the people I work with. Not my team, understand, they're a splendid bunch of workers, but the Death Eaters. They're a really infuriating group."

"You know, I think I've noticed. Why do you even keep with them at all?"

Turpentine snorted. "'Cause they'd kill me otherwise? But enough of that. Let's see that map of yours. Was that trigger ever set off to… day…"

He stopped and gaped as Servaas, very calmly, held up the map of England, the non-laminated one. "As you said, I marked the spot where a trigger was set off, every time."

Turpentine stared in horror. Most of the map was unmarked, except for one spot in Scotland, closer to the eastern shore than most places, which had been dotted, X'd, circled, circled again, had arrows pointing to it, and, in large script by the top was written, "THEY'RE ON TO YOU."

A kind of gagging noise came from Turpentine's throat. "Im-impossible!"

"And see this? Talley marks," Servaas pointed. "Forty times today."

"It's impossible!" Turpentine insisted.

At that exact moment, (Calliope was conjecturing that "Uncle was captured, and Benny was erased –" and) on the laminated map, the location in East Scotland gave another sharp, white glow.

Servaas picked up the pen. "Another one!" and started to mark the forty-first tally mark, but Turpentine gripped Servaas' hair and yanked his head back, hissing "_Leglimens!"_

Turpentine glared into Servaas' eyes furiously, their bodies immobile. After a time he broke eye contact. "You aren't lying," he breathed. He picked up the unlaminated map again. "How in holy hell is this possible?

Then he stared forward again, remembering how, just a second ago in Servaas' memories, he had caught a sneaking edge of familiarity, of pride, of triumph. He rounded on Servaas again. "_You!_ Do you know where this place is?"

"Well, I'm not an idiot. It's obviously eastern Scotland."

"You know more than that. Tell me!"

"No." Servaas was very calm.

"_Leglimens_!" This time Servaas resisted, forcing his eyelids shut, twisting away from the Death Eater's eyes.

"_Leglimens._" This time, a clearly articulated growl. Memories swam between the two men's vision – a house in Scotland, old but built on the foundations of houses far older, magic reaching far into the soil, accessible by broomstick if you know the way, you can get in the front gate if –

"_NO!_" Servaas grabbed Turpentine by his shirt collar and pulled himself up, breaking their eye contact. He kept one hand on the crumpling blue material and pulled the other back to strike Turpentine in the face.

Turpentine's concentration was still unfocused. He attempted to point his wand somewhere and Servaas tried to wrestle it out of his grip one-handed. When Turpentine seemed to be starting to recover, Servaas abandoned that effort and instead grabbed the Death Eater's collar again, and tried to swing him to the floor.

"Why the sudden rebellion, old man?" Turpentine coughed, regaining his bearings, and pointing his wand at Servaas. The spell hit the older man in the knees and sent him crumbling to the floor. Even so, Servaas screwed his eyelids shut and snarled, "I'll never, never let you go there. My life may be over, but Hollywyck is _my_ _home_."

"I'll just fly over."

"Never work. Weyland Ollivander knew what he was doing. Want to Imperius me to tell you?" Servaas smiled grimly.

"You _will!_ Tell me, what are the guards around the house?" Again, he was standing over Servaas, now crouched, looking into the grey eyes.

Servaas had nothing to hide. "Hedges."

"What?"

"Hedges. Rowan. Oak. Hawthorne. Cedar."

"Cedar doesn't grow in England."

"Fair, I admit, that one's a fence. Also holly, mountain ash, and myrtle, but the holly is the worst."

"Just hedges? Bushes? You must be lying." Pause. "There's more than that."

"True."

"Tell me!"

"No."

"_Legilimens_!"

There was a very long silence. Finally, with a gasp, Turpentine broke away.

"That house…" Turpentine was staring into the darkness, apparently very impressed, "Protected by trees and bone…"

"Weyland Ollivander," Servaas said quietly, closing his eyes against his menace, "knew what he was doing."

"… and blood." The Death Eater's eyes gleamed. "If blood will get me into that house… then blood I will have."

He paused, his wand out, looking at Servaas' face. "You know something else. Why aren't you protesting any more?"

"I have no more strength left," was the reply.

For some reason this simple declaration annoyed Turpentine even more. He turned aside and marched upstairs, returning with a stiff leather sack like a small wineskin. He grabbed Servaas' wrist and dragged it towards him.

He said nothing, but there was a flash of silver light, and then the bota bag began to fill up…

Turpentine had not said anything for a long time. But when the bota bag was full, he muttered a quick charm to clot a wound, grabbed both the maps of England on his way upstairs, and extinguished the light.

Servaas lay on the floor, his cheek cold against the stone. He waited until the sound of his warden's footsteps died away, and then clasped, with his uninjured hand, the wooden leg of his chair. He held his cut wrist to it. He said clearly, and slowly, "_Ferrous Coagulus_."

Over the course of a few minutes, slowly, he sat up. He gently felt the wound on his wrist, still throbbing with pain. He then sighed with a bit of victory, and said, for his own comfort, "Maybe you have my blood. But you still will not have been invited. No. Intruder, liar, ill-wisher, you'll be known…"

In the darkness, a smile spread across the weakened man's face.

_It was the night of the last performance of Peter Pan, summer 1971, of the Cranbrook Theater Company. Four people – two in their late teens, one in his early teens, and one very small boy – were being escorted backstage by the black-clad stagehand Benny. _

_Barty Crouch, a weedy-looking thirteen year old, looked around him with the most apprehension. Cranbrook was his hometown, but he had never been in the "Muggle" part of town for so long before. But ever since Benedicte and her family had come to visit at the start of the summer, things were… different. Aunt Philomel was great and all, but Benedicte was spending all her time as a technician on an absurd Muggle play. She said it was for a school assignment. Barty didn't like it, and his dad didn't either. Barty had put off seeing the show as long as he could – and ended up accompanying Linus to his second showing, along with Benny's friends._

_He thought anxiously about all this while Benny gathered Wendy, Hook, and the one and only Peter Pan from their respective dressing rooms. "Guys," she said, "These are my friends, Quinn, and Debra, this is my cousin Barty, and the last is my little brother, Linus."_

"_Hello!"_

"_Hey there."_

"_Nice to meet you."_

"_Great show!"_

"_Wait… are you the one who declared that he _does_ believe in fairies?" Peter's actress bent down to peer quizzically at Linus. _

"_Yes I am! I do believe in fairies!" Linus chirped._

"_We tried to restrain him, we really did," Quinn said in an aside to Benny._

"_Arrgh, and that belief in fairies sure did me a world o' pain, young scallywag," Hook's actor grimaced. _

_The group broke up into three conversations: "Hook" and "Wendy" entertained, and were entertained by, Linus; Debra and "Peter" discussed the life of an actor; Benny and Quinn discussed quietly the essays they would write for their Muggle Studies class. The only one who did not talk was Bartemius Crouch. He stood by himself to the side and watched the others with a mouth turned firmly downwards._

_After a time Benny turned to him with a smile and said, "Barty, why so quiet? Didn't you like the show?"_

"_No," Barty said so loud that the other conversations stopped. _

"… _What?" Benny asked._

"_I hated it. I thought it was stupid, idiotic, it was horrible!" He turned and stormed out the door to outside. When his cousin yelled "Bartemius!" after him, he slammed it. _

_She stood there, frozen and gaping. Wendy's actress said, softly, "Don't worry about it, Benedicte. Every show is bound to rub someone the wrong way…"_

_Benedicte turned around. "I'm so embarrassed – oh my god, I'm sorry everyone." _

_Soon afterwards, she left Quinn and Debra and Linus inside to go and find Barty. He was still standing in the back lot, furiously glaring at the space on the wall between the dumpster and a plywood porticus. He heard the door open and Benny calling inside, "Of course I'll come to strike the set tomorrow." The door closed. _

"_I'm not going to apologize," he said rigidly. "I won't lie to them."_

"_You don't have to apologize for not liking the show. But you will apologize for humiliating me in front of my friends, when I was trying to do something nice for you, and for humiliating yourself by acting like a two year old. Even Linus wouldn't have burst out like that." _

_Barty bit back a retort that yes, Linus would, if sufficiently provoked, and said, "I'm sorry for humiliating you."_

"_You're going to go in there and apologize for your outburst."_

"_I said I'm sorry!"_

"_Bartemius Garravatious Crouch IV –"_

_Instinctively the boy gave a growl of frustration; he hated that name…_

"_Those actors worked night and day for that show, and you will respect that."_

"_Respect what they did? That demented story about kidnapping and that horrible fake fairy and that murderer? I won't! I'm disgusted by it! And you! Participating in it!"_

"_My participation in this is none of your business," Benedicte said coolly._

"_But you're from a pure-blood family, and you use all your power to make those Muggles fly around like Billywigs?"_

_Benedicte's eyes flashed. "Muggle technology can provide flight on-stage."_

"_Not like _that_ they can't, with that grinning tranny hovering and spinning the way she did, _that_ wasn't technology!"_

"_Bartemius. You will respect their commitment. If you did not like the show, you will not spoil their evening with your diatribe. Please go inside and apologize."_

_Bartemius still stood there, mouth pressed shut, uncertain._

"_I don't know which means more to you, the fact that you insulted friends of mine who are hardworking, sincere, and kind, or that you did so in a manner which is completely unworthy of you, embarrassing both of us even further." She went on, more gently, "If the show upset you, you and I can talk about it later. All that I ask is that you respect all the love and commitment that went into it."_

_After a pause, Barty nodded. "I can do that," he said, brushing his forelock out of his eyes. "I can apologize. I'm Hufflepuff, after all."_

_When he stepped backstage again, Benedicte behind him, Wendy and Peter's actresses had changed into more comfortable clothes, and Hook's actor was still in-costume, listening to Linus, and looking very harassed. He almost handed the boy over to his sister, saying "Your brother has a stupendous imagination."_

"_Doesn't he, though?" she answered with a smile._

_Bashfully, Bartemius Crouch apologized to the actors. After the two groups said goodbye, Bartemius walked home under the stars with Debra and Quinn, and Benny carrying a very tired Linus. The Hufflepuff reflected that it was probably a very rewarding feeling, to be so committed to a task that one loved, for so long – a whole summer!_

_But he still did not let go of the inherent wrongness of that pretentious, demented little play, that _Peter Pan_._


	16. Ollivander Blood

Ollivander Blood

_Authors' Note: The dialogue from the Muggle Studies class comes from Act V of George Bernard Shaw's _Pygmalion_, it is used without permission. _

_Also without permission is the reference to a certain brand of shampoo, taken from Katinka's 'Interwoven,' on the Sugar Quill. Check it out because, although outdated, it is perhaps the best fic I have ever read, ever._

_Also, the film of 'Deathly Hallows, Part One' made Professor Charity Burbage out to be a woman with a definite appearance, and quite a bit younger than the one that I write. This actually makes a lot of sense. But for the purposes of my story, Charity Burbage is a slightly different character. Don't be alarmed._

_Also, Happy New Year, one and all! Cheers!_

* * *

_DON'T PANIC_.

_I'm not kidnapped or away on an emergency, I've taken my Stone Cloak and am going to Hogsmeade/Hogwarts, to visit Dora, Professor Burbage, and Severus Snape, and to ask them about Benedicte. I have got to find out. That's it. I will be very careful. I will be home before nightfall._

_Linus_

Calliope and Mark stared at the note on the door, dumbfounded. Calliope was still in her dressing gown and pyjamas; Mark had called her out of her room when he saw it.

"I don't believe it," she said. "What does he think he's doing?"

"Did he forget a 'P.S. We're no longer criminals'? I can't believe it! He's playing fast and loose with his own safety _and_ with mine!" Calliope looked at him, startled by the anger in his voice. Mark's hands were balled into fists and his face was livid. "He would never accept this sort of behavior from me, never, what is his _deal_ –"

"Mark, calm down," Calliope touched his arm and he glanced at her, briefly contrite, but not pacified.

"Sorry – but I can't believe he would do this. He's always following the rules, living by the books – if he's going to do this, why don't I just go back to Edinburgh and see how the Festival is carrying on?" He turned jerkily away from her, away from the door.

"You're right," Calliope said steadily. "This isn't like him, usually. But you don't know him like I do – this isn't _against_ him, either, against his nature, I mean."

Mark nodded.

"He – this, this memory must really mean a lot to him. He knows the risks. I'm sorry, but it may be that he acted without thinking of you."

Mark's facial expression did not change. "Still an idiotic thing to do. Self-centered."

"Now, Mark…"

"He could have sent _you_."

In Hogsmeade Linus was answering that exact same idea to himself, "If you want it done right you do it yourself." He undid and redid the star-shaped clasp on his collar. "Don't sent a mermaid, don't sent a centaur, even a house-elf won't do it the way it needs to be done." He turned the corner past Zonko's joke shop – and stopped, backtracking to look on the windows again. There was a grimly neat row of 'Wanted' posters, for pettier criminals, such as embezzlers, arsonists, and…

Two posters, side by side, displayed caricatures at the B&B level of animation (breathing & blinking), showing a grim-faced manikin in a Stone Cloak with a pointed little beard and melodramatic air; the other showed a dim-looking fellow who wore a New York Yankees T-shirt and a large, rather disturbing smile.

Linus stared. "The horror…" he whispered.

A noise – a dog barking – brought him back to reality. He shook his head, blinking. Then he headed up to the castle.

Morning, and the Obliviator and Paramnesiac's Department was busy already. One poor squad was returning from an all night repair on the memories of a threatening, shapeshifting piece of graffiti scrawled on the side of a Muggle publishing house (a house that specialized in fantasy and speculative fiction books).

As the last of the Apparition pops had sounded in the entrance chamber, T. R. opened the door.

"Welcome back, welcome back," he said. "If I may make a slight demand on your time? Please, come into my office. I think you all deserve a little break for all your hard work, so I've called up a small tea service." He smiled at them all.

A. Tweak followed the others, but thought to herself _'He's got a plan going on…'_

And when she stepped into the office, the dumpy form standing by the samovar, clad in a hideous salmon-colored cardigan made her shudder. She was about to spin on her heel and walk out when a timid voice by her shoulder asked "Tea?"

Amity turned to look. A plain, young woman – seeming too young to be out of Hogwarts – was holding out a tea tray to Amity with an almost pleading smile.

Amity was about to refuse, but the scent caught her attention. She had forgotten lunch, spending the hour among the copious folders of the M.L.E. "Is that – _chai_?"

"Yes, ma'am."

A pause; the scent wafted up, and Amity and loathed herself for her weakness. "That's _good_ chai."

"Only the best, ma'am."

Amity gave in. She took a cup of tea, and poured out honey. She graciously thanked the girl who had served her – or started to, when Umbridge barked _"Julietta!_" from the other side of the room. The girl gave a quick curtsy. Amity watched her mismatched shoulders with pity as she curtsied and hurried her way across the room, and took a place against a wall, trying to be unobtrusive.

"A.T., I hope you're enjoying yourself?"

A.T. looked up into the face of her employer. "Ah, Sir! Thanks very much for this reception, T.R. Very thoughtful of you."

"Of course. Is everything going well?"

"As well as can be expected."

"Might I have a word?"

"Of course." Her smile was rather fixed.

"Well, A.T.," he said, "You've served the Obliviators and Paramnesiac's Division well for the five years since you joined our ranks. Today I meet with my fellow Omniamnists, and one of our topics will be you."

"Me, sir?"

"Yes, you and the work you are doing on behalf of your colleague and friend, Linus Ollivander."

"Yes…" '_Funny how _now_ his full name is used…_' Tweak looked to the swirling flecks at the bottom of her cup, trying to focus on them to the exclusion of all else. '_Occlumency_,' she could hear her instructor saying, '_Is shaping your mind to what it has to be. Leglimency shapes, prods at the mind from the outside. Occlumency fires the mind, makes it unbendable_.' "This is very good tea, sir," she said meekly, taking another sip. '_I am unbendable_.'

"Thank you. Now, at the meeting I will probably have to admit that your actions, such as they are, in no way represent the opinions of the London Branch of the O & P Division; we do not wish to defy the rulings of the Wizengamot."

"Oh, no sir."

"However, I must say that I find your actions – admirable."

"Sorry?" A.T. looked up from her cup and for a second met T.R.'s eyes. They were brown, creased in a smile, and glittering with triumph? She recollected herself, focused on the intricate clasp at his neck – two moons, one white and one black, facing away from a star.

"Certainly. You rush to defend a friend, even though he has been convicted – although his actions indicate him to be guilty – you still search for the truth in the overlooked corners. That deserve commendations."

"Th—thank you sir."

"I'm sure that with your work overtime, you'd also deserve one or two days off. _Good_ days off, not more time spent researching the trial."

"That's generous of you, sir…"

"So sorry, could you repeat that?"

"I said, that's generous, sir."

"I'm not commanding you to take the day off, mind – just allowing it, should you think you need one."

'_Yeah, right_,' she thought. "Sir, with all due respect, considering the five patients shivering in St. Mungo's psychomagical ward, with their memories all addled, I feel that _they_ will need a day off – a day to get back to their lives – much sooner than I will."

"You may change your mind about that." Why was the color in his cheeks so vivid? It made him look very… unhealthy. She made herself smile and nod as T. R. moved away. She finished the tea quickly, and told her buddy E. C. she was heading back to work.

She was rattled, and decided work would be the best way of dealing with it. T.R. did not approve of what she was doing. He wanted her to stop. Why was he being so obtrusive? But at least he couldn't make her stop working.

Hunched over her desk, rereading the hearing's transcript, A. Tweak coughed.

"Coming up in this half-hour, some rockin' oldies from the Glam Grimmers, and then a sampling of the Weird Sister's upcoming album, 'The Brocaded Broom' that we think you'll like. But first, a public service announcement…"

Dora Tonks adjusted the volume on her small, orange-colored Wizarding Wireless, turning it down slightly. She then let it fall to dangle from her black overcoat again. She was the only figure in sight on the Hogwarts lawn, closest to the Hogsmeade border, and in the very early, yellow light smearing the sky, she shivered, and focused hard to lengthen her hair so it would cover the tips of her ears.

'_It shouldn't be this hard_,' she thought, willing her hair to extend.

She didn't hear the footsteps behind her.

Mark was finishing his breakfast, having put aside (briefly) his fretting over Linus' actions, and as he called to the kitchen, "This was a great meal, truly, excellent hot chocolate in particular," Calliope came down the stairs. She had dressed casually, in a long-sleeved black turtleneck and a long, autumn-colored skirt. Her hair was half-tied back. "Good morning," she said.

Mark looked up, smiling involuntarily when he saw her. "Good morning. You look nice."

"Thanks. By the way – so you know, there's no need to compliment Scurry so loud like that."

"Oh?"

"No. The polite thing to do, at a dinner party, is to just say that the meal was delicious and compliment the master of the house. House-elves like praise, but most of all in praise of their masters. And – it's generally considered kind of gauche to mention house-elves in polite conversation."

"Oh."

"Hello, Dora."

Dora gave a start and spun around "Linus! What do you think you're _doing_ here? What is the address of my parents' house?"

"8089 Pratchett Street, Oxford."

"Good."

"So my Stone Cloak worked."

"You think that's supposed to reassure me? When the last I heard of you was on the radio news bulletin?"

"It's way more complicated than that, but that's not what I'm here to talk to you about." He paused and looked at her. "Dora, calm _down_."

She took a deep, practiced breath. "I'm very surprised to see you here. Today. Wearing your uniform. You have broken the law, and I'm supposed to turn you in."

"Yes, I know, but listen –"

"Does Calliope know you're here?"

He consulted his watch. "She should by now."

She lowered her voice. "Have you been staying at Hollywyck?"

"Yes."

"With Mark what's-his-name, the Muggle?"

"Yes. Dora, can I interview you while you're on the job? Right now?"

Calliope sat down opposite him and spread her palms on the table. "Mark, today, I'm going to write a letter to the Wizengamot, to persuade them to give you another trial, with me as your witness."

"Great!"

"Yeah. We'll say that you never presumed to magic, that you never knew that wizards existed. I took care to never let you know. And as for the car accident – I'm willing to admit that I know nothing of American Muggle traffic laws, and acted recklessly, putting myself in danger."

"And that you dropped your wand?"

"Splinched, and dropped it. I still have the scar on my hand to prove it."

"Yeah. And that I've been trying to get it back to you all this time."

"Exactly. I'll take some breakfast – Scurry?"

"Linus…"

"This is _really _important."

"So is my job."

"All the more reason we shouldn't prolong bickering and get to the point."

"How important is it?"

"What if I told you that I had news of a person gone missing?"

"That'd be important. But –"

"But it's not a person. It's a memory, a whole stack of them, an entire life's worth, _gone_."

"Whose…?"

"The memory _of_ someone, the memory of a certain person. And you, and a couple of professors up at the school, are the only ones who can help me."

She frowned. "So you want to actually enter Hogwarts when this is done?"

"Yes, exactly."

"This had better not take long – either with me or with them. I will give you the timeframe of when you go and stay, got it?"

"Yes."

"Now whose memory is this, and how have you worked it out?"

"Okay. Dora, answer to the fullest extent of your knowledge. Do you remember anyone named Benedicte Ollivander?"

Dora paused, tilting her head to the side, and then said, "Of course, yes."

An hour after he began to speak with Dora, Linus was running to the school carrying a specially enchanted note in his hand – signed by two official guards. The note stipulated that he could stay in Hogwarts, but only until two in the afternoon, an hour before most classes let out. He took the stairs to Professor Burbage's classroom two at a time, then had to stop when he arrived at the door and saw that a class was in session.

The students were acting out a scene from a play – ah, yes! He remembered this one, from that story about the flower-girl who learns to speak like a lady. Professor Burbage always said this was an extremely important play in English literature for… some reason.

Linus leaned closer to the door to listen. The students were in Victorian Muggle costume – or what could pass for it in a dimly lit room. Apparently they had rehearsed this over the summer – something like this had happened back in Linus' day. Later they had staged a _gratis_ performance in an empty classroom and had asked the kitchens to provide treats.

FEMALE STUDENT: … apart from the things anyone can pick up (the dressing and the proper way of speaking, and so on), the difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she's treated. I shall always be a flower girl to Professor Higgins, because he always treats me as a flower girl, and always will; but I know I can be a lady to you, because you always treat me as a lady, and always will.

OTHER FEMALE STUDENT: Please don't grind your teeth, Henry.

MALE STUDENT: Well, this is really very nice of you, Miss Doolittle.

F. STUDENT: I should like you to call me Eliza, now, if you would.

M. STUDENT: Thank you. Eliza, of course.

F. STUDENT: And I should like Professor Higgins to call me Miss Doolittle.

The bell rang.

Professor Burbage looked up. "Well! That was a wonderful note on which to close today's lesson! We'll resume Act Five tomorrow. Class, the paper I assigned earlier is due Friday, don't forget. Have a good day."

Linus saw his chance. He went forward when the students have dispersed.

"Professor? Do you have a moment?" He quickly loosened the clasp on his Stone Cloak]

"So sorry, do I know you –?"

"Linus Ollivander, ma'am. You taught me in 1984, '85…"

"Oh, yes! I _do_ remember you! How are you! I see you're wearing an Obliviator cloak, splendid, I always knew you'd go far…" She shook his hand. "But how did you get in?"

"Professor, I don't mean to seem rude, but there is a matter of some urgency that I wish to talk with you about."

"Of course, what is it?"

"I was told that you have an essay written by my sister… Benedicte?"

"… Yes, I do as a matter of fact. Funny… funny you should ask that."

"May I see it? Do you mind if I make a copy of it?"

"Oh, of course you may. I know it's right in this pile here – not _too_ far from the top…"

He nodded, then yawned, to his great horror.

The professor chuckled. "Old habits die hard, don't they?"

Linus shook his head. "No, it's not that, it's just – I didn't sleep very well last night. Have been sleeping poorly for a while now, in fact…"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Say, Mr. Ollivander, did I hear your name on the radio recently, or am I hallucinating?"

Behind his back, he made a tight fist. "Maybe you're the one with sleep deprivation! I'm sure I haven't been in the news recently…"

" Really? All right, then. Aha! Here it is. Do you mind duplicating it yourself? My next class, you know…"

"I don't mind at all, Madam"

"Here's some paper – your sister really did give a splendid essay there – a shame… Well, Mr. Ollivander, isn't it odd, that when I asked Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor, if she remembered your sister, she said no?"

"Oh?"

"And neither had Flitwick or Sinistra, or even Hagrid. Slughorn couldn't recall either, when I asked him." She shook her head. "It was very strange."

"Did _you_ recall?"

"Actually, no. Even after I found that essay, I could never remember what Benedicte may have looked like, or been like. There's a plaque, though, in the trophy room, with her name on a list of Head Girls."

"Really?" Gingerly he picked up all four duplicated rolls of parchment and straightens up to look at her. "And none of the teachers could remember her, you say? Even those who should have taught her?"

"Precisely." She looked at him keenly. "What makes me think you were already performing an investigation into this subject?"

He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be able to pry deep into the job and find out everything. Take care."

"Thank you. You take care, too, Professor."

The statue of Eustace the Garrulous appeared to be set on a backdrop of frosted glass; actually, it protected small passageway to a nook with generous windows (not, at this height, for the agoraphobic), a room where three people might sit comfortably and read, four if they were first-years. It was here that Linus retreated, placing a light spell for secrecy across the threshold.

Once inside, he sat and read the essay. As he started, he wondered, '_What is _Peter Pan_ about? How does it end? I wonder if I could remember that? Mark would know. I wish I could ask him_.' It did not take him long to read it.

When it was done he sat back a little. There had only been four individual mentions of _him_, which were inherently interesting (granting for Linus' bias). Well, the essay was not about him, it was about a play-acting group of Muggles as seen through the eyes of a bright and articulate young woman with a sense of humor and a tendency to digress from the topic at hand. _She_ was a complete stranger to him, yet, she seemed like the kind of person that Linus' parents might have raised, with the confidence gained from having been an only child for most of her life. She seemed… really nice.

'_I wish I could have known her_,' Linus caught himself thinking – then he reminded himself that as little as four or five days ago (how many sleep cycles had he gone through? That was a bad question…) he _had_ known her, known her history, known her face, known her by little scraps and smiles from the beginning of his memory.

"Enough of that," he said, standing up (with some effort, the room spun a little) "I don't have time."

He left the room quickly, removing the spell from the threshold as he went.

The Omniamnist glanced at his watch, saw that the time was right, and changed, invisibly, into the Death Eater. He cleared his throat, then faked a very good cough. This was the fifth such episode, carefully timed. Everyone at the meeting looked at him.

"Are you quite sure you're all right?" Someone had asked.

"I'm not quite feeling to my usual self, but –" another cough interrupted him.

"This is the season for coughs," someone farther up the table had pointed out. "It may be contagious."

"I heard someone coughing just as I was coming in…"

"Not to drive you out, but you had better go," the chairwizard said solemnly. "If it's contagious, sorry, we can't risk it."

"I understand. I apologize for –" He stood up –"having exposed you to me." A sudden doubt gripped him: had he been _too_ eager to leave? No time for that; he was told to go, and so go he would. The Death Eater turned his back on the council of Omniamnists and marched away under the lamps of the hallway.

"What's this we have here?" The Hollywyck study. Sunshine comes in through the windows. "It looks like a radio. One of those big old-fashioned ones from World War Two."

"It _is_ a radio. A Wizarding Wireless, and… yeah, it probably is about that old."

"… Is it safe for me to touch it?"

"You're learning. Yes, but – you can't turn it on."

"Oh. Um…"

Calliope pointed her wand at it. "_Ovrit ecout_," she said, and the box began playing classical music, which had sounds and turns of pitch unlike any Mark had heard before. "Thank you," he said, his hand already on the knob.

Calliope resumed her writing by the window. She was carefully trying to reconstruct her friendship with Mark and her last night in Boston at the same time. From time to time she would look up at him, fiddling with the dials.

"_Ktttccccch_…. This is a special bulletin of interest to all in the Thornfield area, do not, we repeat, do _not_… _Cccchhh_… 'Whatchoo talkin' bout, Mom?' [Laughter of audience]…"

… As she watched his face, looking at nothing but intense in concentration, a smile would bloom on her face that she would not notice.

"_Ccchhhh_… With _je ne sais quoi_ and lots of panache-s, I'm a natural beauty from hair to galoshes… The stock for goblin-made jewelry has sunk twenty points this past weekend, a record low… _Ktcccchhh_… I had a sense that someone was following me, so I reached for my trusty wand and readied…"

"Calliope?" Mark turned the volume down.

She looked up at him. "Yes, Mark? What is it?"

"If my memory of the Wizarding world is – suppressed – _if_ – what will you do? And assuming we win this war, too."

Calliope sat back and set her quill down. "You seem pretty sure we'll win."

"Well, I have no idea, but good usually wins, I've noticed. Definitely where magic is involved, you know, in stories."

"Hmph."

"No need to hmph."

"Well, if it _is_ a story, sorry, Mark, but you and I aren't the heroes. That'd probably be – mm…."

"Who?"

"Well, Harry Potter, but I don't want to say it out loud, someone might get ideas. Anyway, what would I do, if we won the war…."

"And I had no memory of this world."

"But – you remember me?"

"Well, of course, yeah." Mark sat back on his heels, eyes fixed on her.

"Mm… well, I'd have to see, whether I wanted to stay in England or go back to the U.S."

"Say you came back…"

"Of course I'd come and see you."

"Of course." Mark was quiet, then nodded. "That'd be nice." A longer quiet. "Have you ever had to – um, talk to someone whose memory had been Modified, but yours wasn't?"

"No. You're the first real Muggle friend I've ever had."

"Oh. Well, thank you for the distinction."

"You're welcome. But of course I would come and see you. It might hurt, to remember things that you don't, but I'm sure I'd be all right. I'd manage. Millions of wizards have done the same."

"Yeah… okay."

He turned the radio up again. "_Ktttcch… _You never know what kind of a day your hair will have. Use Gilderoy Lockhart's _Scrubbly Bubbly_, in Essence of Raspberry and _new_ –"

"I'm going to try and find a news station."

The windows that lit the dungeon, scarce that they were, let in only a hazy light, smeared by the smoke from years of Potions classes nearby. Linus could hear Professor Snape's voice ahead: "In the second semester of class we will study beings such as giants, veela, and kitsune, which are not Dark by themselves but have destructive or dangerous habits, as well, we will cover the curses found in –"

Linus stopped in his tracks. '_Defense Against the Dark Arts?_' He thought. '_Snape_? _But it was the one subject – could that be someone else?_' He tiptoed to the door and glanced inside – no doubting it, that was Severus Snape. The class seemed to be in no danger of finishing, so Linus found a seat, half-concealed with a torch nearby, to reread Benedicte's essay.

Walden MacNair's house, before his capture at the Ministry of Magic, had been open to any Death Eater. They were free to come in for a strong drink and Quidditch broadcast, or at least a simple hour in the company of Death Eaters but without the company of the Dark Lord. In Walden's own way, he had let them be freely themselves, but without the red eyes of the Master watching their every move and word.

However, Turpentine had never availed himself of the opportunity to visit MacNair, and nor had his brother. It was an unkempt, out of the way place in a rural backwater, not the sort of place where either one would be seen. However, it did have one thing that served Turpentine's purposes now: a herd of thestrals in a nearby forest. Once he had Apparated there, he strode into the woods with all the confidence he could muster.

The woods were shadowed and Turpentine shivered a little. He opened his briefcase, enchanted to hold things much greater than its seeming capacity. As he took out a package wrapped in brown paper, he could already sense something not too far away. He laid the unwrapped package on the ground: a flank of beef, raw, fresh, and partially drained of blood.

He waited.

It was not long before the thestral came out of the shadows and into the little clearing. It began to quietly tear the flesh away from the bones and chew meditatively, keeping its opaque eyes on the human nearby. He was fascinated by the bony structure of the wings and face, by the blackness of the hide that did not shine or gleam, but merely absorbed light dully. But soon he realized that the fantastic beast was finishing with the flank. It was time for stage two.

From his briefcase he took out a small, simple bowl carved out of oak wood, and the small, filled bota bag of mooncalf leather. His mouth tightened as he opened it and poured out some blood, still dark red. Mr. Ollivander's blood.

The thestral stepped closer, interested. It sniffed the air experimentally.

He did not let up in pouring, not until the bag was halfway drained, but he did arch his body as far away from the winged horse as he could. When he was done, he corked the bag again at once and stored it upright so that not a drop was lost. Then he carefully pushed the bowl towards the thestral, which began to drink greedily.

He waited.

When the thestral was as the bottom of the wooden bowl, Turpentine took a deep breath and put his hand on the thestral's head. He then scooped his hand behind so it was holding the creature's jawbone.

He said, in as authoritative a voice as he could muster, "You like that blood, did you?"

The thestral, licking its lips, regarded him quietly.

"I gave you that blood, so now you owe me something."

If the thestral thought this was legally unsound, it didn't say anything.

"There is a patch of land that is bound to that blood. Bound to it deeply. You can find that place now. You will take me there."

The thestral said nothing, and did not protest when Turpentine packed up his things (including the bag of blood) and (with difficulty) swung himself up onto its back.

There was an awkward pause where the thestral seemed intent on nosing along the ground to seek any tasty morsels it may have missed.

Turpentine, a little flustered, cleared his throat and said, "Giddy-up."

Wings extended suddenly on either side of him. They beat a few times, throwing up leaves and dust motes to spin madly in the light, then after a light canter, the thestral and its passenger took off.

Turpentine clung tightly to the horse's neck, willing himself to be strong of mind and strong of stomach. The thestral felt the prospect of a brisk flight ahead of it, along with a hardy storm coming in from the north-north-west, which made for some very appealing air currents.

And so, a temporary bearer of Ollivander blood flew, with a guest, towards Hollywyck.

_Huo Quinn, in the Gryffindor common room, looked up from his Arithmancy assignment. He sat back and surveyed his two best friends. Debbie Martindale was clipping and re-clipping her wavy brown hair to keep it out of her eyes as she attempted to memorize potion ingredients. Benedicte Ollivander was carefully composing an essay. The fire was roaring in the fireplace. Rain was spattering the windows. Christmas was coming._

_Quinn sighed. "All is well with the world."_

_Then he looked again at everything – and something caught his eye. _

"_Benny."_

_She looked up guiltily. "What?"_

"_What do… small… ribbons… have to do with Arithmancy?"_

"_It's not ribbons! I'm trying to draw snakes."_

"_And Arithmancy relates to snakes… how?"_

"_It… it doesn't, okay. But it's a present I'm planning on for Linus and the baby. And in fact, I need your help."_

_Quinn raised an eyebrow. Benny saying the words "I'm planning" and "I need your help" in the past had led to trouble. "How can I help?" But then again, what are friends for?_

"_I've decided to make a project out of the Rod of Asclepius. You're the best at History of Magic, so I need to know all the possible facts about it. I'll give you credit as a research consultant, how's that?"_

"_Tell you what. I'll go the library tomorrow with you before your Care of Magical Creatures class and see what we can dig up."_

"_Thanks, Quinn! You're the best!" Benny gave him a bright smile. "This is going to be a great gift, you'll see. Linus and the baby are going to love it."_

"_You seem to know this baby pretty well already," Debbie quipped from behind '_Magical Drafts and Potions_.' "Considering she's not even born yet."_

"_Of course I do," Benny replied simply._

_And now, as Quinn returned to his quadratic exorcism assignment, it was Benny's turn to look out over the common room and take a moment to reflect, and be grateful._


	17. Open Sesame

Open Sesame

A/N: You're in for a treat, loyal readers – special Canon Guest Star this week, Severus Snape!

More notes at the end of this chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

At the Obliviator's and Paramnesiac's Department, Oneironomist-in-training Amity Tweak had taken a cup of tea, by the grace of the head Omniamnist, T.R., at 1:15 p.m.

At 1:30, after she left the brief conference, she was heard to be coughing slightly.

At around 3:30, she suggested hoarsely to her coworker that she might leave work early.

At 3:45, she was seen feebly preparing to go, but hampered from another spasm of coughing.

At 4:05 she staggered out the door of the O&P Department, and collapsed.

At 4:17 she was in St. Mungo's, and was being attached to an artificial respirator because she could not breathe.

Time passed. The bell rang and the class filed out, not noticing the hunched figure who was a little behind the door. Linus gave a little shudder, thinking of all the horror a Death Eater could perform with a good Stone Cloak.

An impious corner of his mind whispered wasn't it a good thing that Snape was not an Obliviator… he hushed that voice and stood up to enter the classroom.

Snape was shuffling materials on his desk, from anatomical models of werewolves and giants to a set of Dark Detectors. He did not look up until the Sneakoscope was perfectly balanced on its tip.

"Do you have permission to be here?" he asked before Linus could speak. He glared at Linus coldly with black eyes.

Linus strode to the desk. "I need your help. I'm Linus Ollivander, yes I have permission to be here, and I need to consult another Obliviator about a peculiar phenomenon that's come up."

"Oh? Ollivander, aren't you a wanted criminal?"

"I'm under the care of the Order of the Phoenix, if you must know."

Coldly, "I did _not_ need to know, and if you're half as clever as you think you are you won't go sharing it with everyone from whom you need a favor."

"I don't have time. Listen, you graduated here in 1978, right?"

"… yes."

"Do you recall ever knowing or ever hearing of a Benedicte Ollivander?"

Snape regarded him with some surprise. "No. The only Ollivanders I knew at this school were you, your sister and cousins."

"I had another sister. Her name was Benedicte. Now some people can't remember her at all, even though there's physical evidence of her. Even _I _can't remember her. Something is very seriously wrong."

"And what do you want _me_ to do?"

For a second Linus hesitated and Snape looked into his eyes, bringing the memory of Linus' accusation of Snape – _He's the only one with the training, and something of a motive… Cormac Prince… Philomel Ollivander—_to the fore. Linus shook it off, but Snape's frown grew deeper.

"I – that's something I decided against." Linus spluttered.

Snape looked, not surprised, but exasperated. "I'm feeling less inclined to help you, sir. I've already got Harry Potter accusing me of every spilt potion in this school, I don't need more conspiracies dropped at my feet."

Linus dropped his gaze. "I will never accuse you of anything, sir, without reason. Forgive me."

"I will help you."

Linus looked up. "Pardon?"

"In the name of Benedicte Ollivander." Snape was looking idly at Linus, the way he might look at an apothecary, but his hands were gripping a raven quill pen with unusual tension and delicacy. "To remove a memory by force, and without cause, is a crime. Your sister – Benedicte? – must have been loved, otherwise no one would have ever recalled her, or noticed the lack, or wanted to fix it. No one has the right to remove love from someone else's life, whether in the form of a person or a memory. I'll help you."

As they had been talking, Turpentine, speeding north-north-east with his thestral, had checked the Taboo Locator Map and seen a spot in Scotland glow again. He flew even faster and swore nastily, the expletives dying on the wind behind him.

Calliope put the quill down. "I'm finished," she announced. "Would you like to proofread the letter?"

Mark turned the radio dial and shook his head. "No, you're an eloquent person, I think it'll be fine. Besides, it, ah, wouldn't be right for me to read all the flattering things you wrote about me."

"Mm-hmm." She smiled. "Scurry?" When the house-elf entered, she said, "Please post this letter to the Ministry of Magic – the Wizengamot." Scurry took the envelope and letter with a curtsy and left.

Calliope leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms. A familiar jingle caught her ear. "Wait – turn the dial back there. To the station with the music."

Mark obediently dialed back. A chipper voice in an Irish brogue said, "And we're going ta start off this half-hour with some strings for you all, here's the classic 'Full Moon Duet,' by Sonatina Bell and David Zither, followed by the new Rubaiyat hit, 'Song of the Black Fox.'"

Mark looked up at the young woman at the table. Her face lit up as the music started, and she started tapping her foot. On a whim he stood up, strode to the table, and extended his hand to her, the other tucked behind his back. "Care to dance?"

Calliope stared at him, then broke into a surprised laugh. "What?"

"C'mon. No one here to catch us." He grinned. His mind was racing. '_Maybe something will develop out of this. Maybe not. But maybe she'll smile. And I want this –_'

She slipped her hand into his, and stood up.

The touch of his hand on her waist made her – alert, shy, emboldened. "I warn you, I've got two left feet."

"We'll work it out. Just – wait, you don't mean literally, right?" He glanced down at her house slippers.

She laughed. "Not literally," and rested her hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah." Mark took a deep breath to steady himself for whatever came next. "Okay. Great. Just follow my lead. One-two-three-_and—_" he was stepping with the violins, and very glad that he was too busy to blush.

Just as the irreverent chorus of 'Full Moon Duet' was nearing its peak, Scurry hastened into the room. She stared in some surprise at Miss Calliope capering so, with only the barest regard for the existence of such objects as furniture, and had to actually raise her voice to get their attention. Once the two had stopped dancing, Calliope lowered the volume on the radio and asked "Scurry, what is it?

Scurry curtsied to both of them. "Miss," she said anxiously, "Someone is coming. How often we've said that lately!"

"Is it Linus?" Calliope asked.

"No, it's not. It's flying, we think, coming very fast – we don't have a good feeling about it…"

Calliope looked at Mark. His worst fears about Linus seemed to be confirmed, but he said nothing. She turned back to the house-elf. "Where are they coming from?"

"From where do they come? Sorry, not thinking…" Mark shrank a bit.

"From the South, Miss."

Calliope inhaled. "Okay. Mark, you will hide until we know who this person is."

He swallowed, every chivalric instinct in him crying against it. "Okay. Where do you suggest?"

A pause. "Benny's room."

(Gaining closer and closer, the Death Eater whispered "_Shit!_")

"Calliope –" Mark stood up.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Go hide. Keep safe."

She hurried outside, and he, with much more trepidation, entered Benny's room.

The wardrobe was tall and cedar. On the door of it hung a blue and gold gown, still well preserved, but rather stiff.

Mark stepped inside, thinking '_There's got to be an enchanted sword in this house, at _least_, something I can use…_' He did not shut the door completely.

Calliope was out in front of the house, scanning the sky. "Scurry, take the back."

As the house-elf raced away, a cloud briefly covered the sun, making the steep roof of Hollywyck a near-black plane. Between the eaves a cloak moved, flapping in the wind. Its owner, broomstick in hand, carefully stepped out and knelt to inspect the house's guards. "I came just in time," Turpentine muttered.

He noticed the balcony below him. He approached it with great care, floating onto it – one hand on his broomstick, the other on the wall – and only when he was sure he would not be seen. He put the broomstick aside, took his wand out, and waited. He watched as the house-elf ran on the grass far below. He took aim.

"_Stupefy_."

There was a red flash and the house-elf fell to the ground. Satisfied, he pulled out of his cloak a Bag of Holding – small, leather, and incapable of being filled – and rapped the French windowpane with his wand. He door opened and he stepped into the Master Suite. For a second his eyes flit to every corner, then he spotted the bronze curtain and rope pulls. With a stride and glint in his eye, he pulled the rope.

The children in the painting all seemed the right age – he ignored their cries of "Who are you?" as he bent closer to read the plaque.

"Perfect," he whispered as he set his wand against the back of the frame.

"What are you –"

"_Disincleft!_"

The three subjects screamed as their oak frame was forced away from the wall. "_Help! Help!_"

"_Silencio!_" Turpentine barked. He tapped the frame and said another spell, usually employed to prevent trespassers or witnesses from wandering onto or off of a crime scene. The eldest girl in the painting, holding her brother's hand and clutching her baby sister, tried to throw herself against the edge of the painting, outside the painting, with no success. When he finished taking the picture down from the wall he took out the Bag of Holding and opened it wide, stuffing the painting inside. "This will be good," he said to himself. He cast around the room a minute more and then ran out, adrenaline coursing through him.

Once in the hallway, he pointed his wand out and said, "_Ovros portos!_" Three of the doors opened easily. (In the closet, Mark heard it and involuntarily crossed himself.) One stayed shut. Turpentine raced to that one and growled "_Alohomora!_" It clicked open and he looked inside.

This was the room. It hadn't been lived in for many, many years.

The wardrobe door was a little ajar, enough for Mark to watch helpless, as the tall, blotchily-complexioned man in an off-black cloak moved into the room with a jaguar-like hunch and a gleam in his eye. He looked all over the room and went up to the small figurines on the shelves, to touch them and consider them a moment before putting them down again.

Mark kept breathing deeply, trying to control his panic. '_I must stay calm. I must stay calm. I must keep watching this man_.' The wardrobe seemed to grow tighter and more constricting. The thick jackets and stiff dresses were sucking the air out of the tiny space. Mark began to sweat and kept telling himself to breath deeply, but not too deeply – what if the man heard?

But the intruder seemed entirely intent on what he was doing. Now he was on the bed, going through the chest of carvings belonging to the dead girl.

He had nodded gleefully at the Rod of Asclepius set and, like a reverse Santa Claus, was closing up the box and putting it into a bag that was absurdly too small for it – '_What _is_ he doing? What does he want from this stuff?_'

Mark stood shock-still in the tight darkness, clutching the wool cloak with both hands.

Turpentine next spotted a book on the bed, entitled '_The Ballad of Lady Wren and Good Sister Helga_.' He checked the _Ex Libris _page to ensure that this, too, had belonged to the subject. "That gives me an idea," he muttered, then said, wand out, "_Accio journal_!"

Nothing came to him. He tried again, but no diary, log, or notebook surrendered itself. "I wonder if clothes would work…"

He eyed the wardrobe but did not step towards it yet. Instead he perused the bookshelf, seeing which volumes had Benedicte's name written inside and tucking them into his never-empty bag. On his fingers he counted what he had. "One, the painting – the carved menagerie probably counts for two – four, five, six, I need more clothes, it'll probably work, and – photographs?" He checked the pictures hanging on the wall. In many of them, a prominent figure was stilled unnaturally. "Ah! I see I had a success _there_, at least. I'll take those for research…"

(Mark's heartbeat made his very sight tremble.)

"…Wonder why the painting didn't – hm – no time to dally." He strode to the wardrobe, hand outstretched…

First he took the gown off of the door, and tucked it with surprising gentleness into his bag…

"_Scurry!_"

Calliope had spotted the faded red curtain on the grass and rushed to the house-elf. A moment's inspection alleviated the worst of her fears – she turned Scurry's tiny form over, took out her wand and put it to the temple next to the closed eyes. "_Ennervate!_" she intoned.

At once Scurry's green eyes fluttered open. "Inside!" she shrieked.

"Scurry, don't agitate yourself –"

"Miss, he's inside! With the Muggle sir!"

The wardrobe door opened.

Mark was pressed against the back of the wardrobe, his eyes wide and taking in every detail of the intruder that he could – such as the familiar insignia at the clasp of his cloak.

Then he realized that the wizard was just as surprised as he was. But as Mark was preparing for a full-body tackle, the intruder merely had to pull out his wand and shout "_Mobiliarcorpus!_"

Mark felt himself thrust into the air, right-side up but powerless to control his direction. His legs flailed under him as the wizard sent him through the doors of the wardrobe and against the wall with a thud, and kept him there, at his eye level. The wizard stepped closer to him, squinting. "Are you – yes, it _is!_ Mark Emory Printzen, wanted Muggle for crimes against wizardry. Well, this is my lucky day. I should have known you'd be here…" He stepped closer. "I admit myself very curious about you. Just what _is _going on in that little mind of yours?' Now he was almost nose-to-nose with Mark, and his wand was pressing on a vein in Mark's neck. "Let's see. _Legilimens_."

Mark gasped. In his mind's eye he was crying at his grandmother's funeral again, at his grandfather's, at the funeral of a young student of his. He was having bitter arguments that would never be resolved, being laughed at, humiliating himself. He was in the Sycorax, taunted by the guards. He was in the courtroom, laughed at, hearing the word '_Guilty_' pronounced, and hearing it applauded. He was surrounded by invisible Dementors, he was looking at Calliope's face as she forced herself to be stoic…

"Hmm," said the wizard.

Mark felt a shift as the Death Eater began to wade through his memories of Calliope – all of her moods, all of the ways she had looked at him, all of her.

"Ha!"

The Death Eater tossed his head away, keeping his wand at Mark's throat. Mark blinked and coughed, the images of Calliope draining from his sight. His fists were clenched in rage. "You _saw_ all that…" he muttered.

"Yes, I saw all that," the Death Eater turned back to him. He was smiling, and his eyes were glinting. "You sad, deluded dog. As if she would ever –"

Two things happened at once: Mark spat in the wizard's face and Calliope skid into the room, wand out, face livid. "_Expelliarmus!_"

Mark fell to the floor and the Death Eater's wand flew out of his hand, smacking the wall above the doorway. Mark scampered up to grab the intruder's hands behind his back. The Death Eater, looking around him, declared "_Stop_! I'm an M.L.E. official, and I know you are holding at least one outlaw – probably two. Short of killing me, there's nothing you can do to keep me from calling the M.L.E. here and shipping you all to Azkaban for Presumption and providing asylum to criminals."

"Who are you?" Calliope approached him, wand at his neck, her eyes level with his. "What are you trying to –"

"_Leglimens!_" The man muttered, looking Calliope in the eye. She gave a little cry and stumbled backwards – for an instant she wasn't in that room, in front of an unknown assailant: she was in a memory, cold, having stayed out too long on a snowy night and lost her way –

Mark, confused but still clamping the man's arms, yelled, "Calliope!"

As she straightened up, the Death Eater jerked forward, trying to wrest his arms from Mark's grip.

"He's doing it!" Mark spluttered. Calliope looked at him. "He was taking –"

"_Silence!_" with a shove, the Death Eater freed himself. He seized his wand and jerked it, flinging Mark against the wall. Calliope winced.

"Callie, the memories –"

"_Silencio!_"

Calliope looked quickly around, never relaxing her wand hand. The wardrobe was open – the chest at the foot of the bed was open and things were missing – she looked at the Death Eater again and recognized the cloak: an off-black cloak with a matching capelet, a clasp at the neck of a black and a white crescent moon facing away from a star – and she knew what he was, and what his mission was.

But what to do?

Mark twisted against the spells and the Death Eater, lost in his own gloating, turned to her to say, "I think I'll give you a choice –"

"No," she said, her silver eyes wide as she leveled her wand at his throat, not daring to look into his eyes again, "You're going to let him go."

The tone in her voice made Mark stop moving, and made the Death Eater stop smirking. "And why will I do that?"

"Because I remember Benedicte Ollivander."

Mark fell from the wall. The Death Eater gasped, "Impossible!"

"So a communal modification of memory, is what you're saying."

"Yes."

"An erasure of one person."

"Yes, exactly."

"And you suspect Death Eater involvement?"

"… Yes."

Not once during this interview had Snape put away any of the papers which he was grading. Linus despised him for it. "Well, you come to me as if this had never been attempted before."

"Well, never in _my_ experience, no, and I can't do this alone. I can't mosey back to my office and ask their advice. Do you think that this could be a Death Eater activity?"

"That, Mr. Ollivander, is an extraordinarily dangerous sentence." Snape put his quill down, and put his fingertips together. "But yes, I think this is something they might attempt."

"Okay. Good. I'd like a fresh input on some other questions I have, if you don't mind."

"I only have so much time for you to waste. Be brief."

"You, Professor Burbage, McGonagall, Slughorn, Flitwick, and Hagrid, along with Scurry the house-elf and myself, have no memory of Benedicte, despite having opportunity to know her. Dora Tonks, Calliope, my sister, and… that's all that I've quizzed so far… retain memory that she existed, despite – oh. Wait." Linus sat back in his chair. "I think I'm getting the answer by myself."

"Always glad to be of service." Snape resumed grading papers.

"Those who only ever _heard_ of Benedicte, but never met her, have memories – the key is having what, what you might call primary source memories. Conscious, recountable memories of some interaction with her – which Calliope wouldn't have because she was just a baby then."

"A single conscious memory opens the floodgates," Snape added, "which is why you don't even remember hearing stories about her."

"Yes – yes exactly!"

"Good. Now, is your second question one you _really_ cannot find the answer to, or shall you address the wall?"

"Do you think it likely that my uncle's disappearance is linked to this – communal erasure?"

"Yes," Snape answered simply. "Is that all?"

"Um… yes."

"Good day to you, then."

"Benedicte Ollivander was born October 31st, 1956, by Caesarean section, to Philomel Ollivander and Modeste Samara. She was in Gryffindor House, her first display of magic was to make a bubble of air in a rainstorm, a week before her seventh birthday. Her wand was cypress and unicorn hair, and her favorite play was –"

"Stop! You can't know all this!"

"But I do. Funny, isn't it?"

"You were too young! You have no –"

"I'm twenty-seven years old," Calliope stated. "I was six when she died, I remember her tying up my scarf for me when I was going to play in the snow." She steeled her mind against him, thinking, '_You don't grow up with an Obliviator for a brother without picking up a few tricks…_'

Turpentine's face had blanched, and his thoughts were visibly ticking. As he looked from the swiftly recovering man to the immovable lady, he hissed "This doesn't change anything!"

"Oh yes, it does," Calliope said, surprised at what she was saying, "_I'm_ giving you a choice. Him as a hostage – or me."

"Callie, _no!_" Mark, back on his feet, had started to move to her involuntarily, but another flick – now more a stab – from Turpentine's wand slammed him against the wall _again_.

"It's ridiculous!" Turpentine gave a short laugh, but there was panic behind it. "I'll just take you both – "

"You won't." Calliope, without even looking, pointed her wand at the scarlet curtain above the bed. With a rattle and the susurrus of silk being drawn across the air it had them cradled in a half-circle. Calliope tensed her hand on her wand and pointed it at the window, which opened. (Chapter 4 of _Elemental Magic in Dueling and Defense _was about to prove its worth)

The Death Eater tensed as Mark straightened back up. "You can't overpower me," he said loudly.

"Oh, but we can." Calliope glanced at Mark; their eyes locked, he nodded and they both focused on the Death Eater again. "And even now –"

Scurry tumbled onto the grass and peat about a third of the way between Hogwarts and Hollywyck. Miss Calliope had almost kept her from going, but Scurry was well enough, Scurry _insisted_ on getting help. This – stop – was just a fluke. She was disoriented. She'd been Stunned! She reflected that she had never been Stunned before in her life as she stared up in the sky, feeling like she was spinning on the ground. A moment to rest, that's all.

"Hollywyck is under attack."

She sat, then stood back up and resolutely vanished again, to reappear…

"Even now help is on its way, for us. You are _trapped._"

At that word, Mark sprang and tackled the Death Eater from behind. Calliope then leapt forward, prepared to bind him, the curtain sailing in unison behind her, but he moved too fast: one minute he was clambering with Mark, then he fell and landed on his wand. He shouted "_Expelliarmus_!", sending Mark reeling back and flinging Calliope's wand out of her hand. The Death Eater then grabbed his wand, stumbled out the door and down the hall.

As they started after him, Calliope taking the plum wand in her hand, Mark took her wrist and asked, "You didn't really mean that? Offering yourself as a hostage?" She didn't answer, but tugged him down the stairwell.

Turpentine tripped on the rug, stumbled into the conservatory, tried one door but found it locked, and found that his adrenalin was wearing off fast. A growing sense of malaise plagued him. '_Must be a Thieves' Curse_,' He thought, and became anxious at once to get home and research a countercurse. Another door to the outside: locked. It took a third door for him to remember the Alohomora spell. Hollywyck was taking its revenge.

When he was outside, blinking in the sunlight, turning around to anticipate his pursuers, his situation became clear to him: the Memory Charm had clearly failed. He had in his hand objects to help him with a second attempt, but the woman in the house had actual memories, infinitely more valuable. There was at least one wanted prisoner in the house and almost certainly two. The woman was a witch, the man was a Muggle.

Scientist and Politician battled between his ears. "I've got to _think_," he growled just as the woman and the Muggle burst out of he house. She had her wand out, he was poised for a fight. In a second the choice was clear to him.

He turned his full gaze on the Muggle. As he flicked his wand threateningly, he cold see her moving to attack him. At once he spat a "_Petrificus Totalus!_" at the Muggle, who fell to the ground, paralyzed, and then an "_Expelliarmus!_" at the witch. Her wand was capsized out of her hand and landed near the prone form on the ground.

Turpentine gave one last look to the Muggle, then leveled his wand at her as she was hurrying to the man's side. "_Stupefy!_" She collapsed.

The Death Eater strode towards her and crouched by the prone Muggle's side. His eyes, the only part of him that could express anything, were wide and switching constantly between her and him.

"And now to take care of _you_," Turpentine said, raising his wand in the so-familiar gesture: "_Obliv—"_

_Crack_.

"Stop!" someone yelled, behind him, accompanied by the sound of running footsteps. Turpentine was squatting and was not as agile as he once was: he toppled slightly backwards to get a good look at this new threat, and gasped.

Ten paces away, Linus stopped dead in his tracks, his face disbelieving.

Turpentine said nothing except "_Mobilarcorpus!_" Then he whistled. Calliope, still unconscious, was levitated into the air. The Thestral, whinnying, flew down from the skies. Linus couldn't see it, but he felt the beat of its wings pushing him back, so he retreated to the walls of Hollywyck, for security.

Linus had pointed his wand at Mark and undone the Full Body Bind, to be thanked with a shrieked "_Do something!_ He's getting away!"

But at this point, as Linus exclaimed, it was too late – he might hurt Calliope.

From his broom Turpentine glanced back, watching them get smaller and heard the Muggle's shouts become less and less distinct, and he accelerated until he was well beyond the holly fence, and only then did he start to feel better.

Farther south, farther south – dear God, what had he been _thinking?_ He had just singlehandedly wrecked all of his careful plans and thrown a live hostage into the mix. There was only one word for that, and it was not a polite one, but Turpentine repeated it vociferously as he descended and landed back on MacNair's property.

He turned the thestral loose with a low whistle of three notes, as he had memorized. It tossed its mane – or what mane it had – and trotted away nonchalantly. There, that was _one_ complication out of the way. With a sigh and a Puritan blush, he gripped the witch around her waist, focused on the entrance hall to his house, and spun on his heel.

"_Do_ something! He's getting away!"

"What do you want me to do?" Linus replied, equally anguished. "I might hit her!"

Scurry had fallen to the ground, but she stood up again now. She cried aloud when she saw the departing figures of the intruder and Calliope and the thestral fly over the hedge. "Miss Calliope!" she screamed, trying to run after her. "Miss Calliope!" Her steps were tottering and she swayed from side to side. "Miss Calliope!"

Linus caught her and tried to hold her still. "Scurry, Scurry, please don't, you'll hurt yourself…"

"Master, oh Master, I couldn't stop him, I couldn't focus my magic, I want to try to –"

"No, no, Scurry. Don't hurt yourself, don't. I forbid you. There's nothing… there's nothing you can do."

Mark was standing in place, his eyes wide, looking after the rapidly disappearing dot in the sky until the hedges blocked it from sight entirely.

Linus, cradling Scurry in his arms like a child, stepped back into Hollywyck. He bumped his knee against a doorframe and his forehead collided with a shelf that had stood there for fifty years. He knelt by Scurry's cubby in the pantry and absent-mindedly Summoned a few dishtowels for extra cushioning. He tucked her in, to the best of his ability and urged her, "Get some rest, Scurry. Sleep all you want." He waited until her eyes were closed, then backed out of the pantry and turned around.

He took a deep breath, not seeing anything around him. He became vaguely aware of Mark storming through the kitchen door. When Mark grabbed Linus' arm and started dragging him outside, he started to slowly come back to. They were halfway towards the giant hedge when he resisted. "Where are you going?"

"_Following _them!" Mark yanked Linus' arm again so hard that he thought the Stone Cloak would be damaged. "Are you going to follow on foot?"

"I don't see _you_ pulling out your magic carpet!"

"_Stop_ it," Linus said coldly, pulling his arm free and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We have to think. Think."

Mark was glaring furiously at Linus. "I'll tell you what I think."

Linus met his gaze and glared right back.

"I think you know that bastard."

"No," Linus responded automatically.

"His cloak had the same insignia as the one you're wearing. And you–"

"No. No! I thought I recognized him but it. Is. Impossible."

"Impossible? Like magic carpets? Like wizards and witches? Like Calliope being _kidnapped_?"

"Shut up! Are you blaming me?"

"If you hadn't abandoned us to chase after memories this wouldn't have happened!"

"You –"

"_And_ that bastard is the same one who was erasing Benedicte's memory!"

Linus stared blankly. "How do you know?"

"He was gathering things from Benedicte's room. I was watching. He took Calliope because she said she remembered Benedicte."

"Why would she say that? Why would she ever—" Mark's face fell. Linus narrowed his eyes. "Mark. _Why did she claim that_?"

He took a strangled breath. "Because he was holding me captive. He was going to take me away, but Calliope said to take her – in – my – stead…"

Linus clenched his fists. "_What_?"

"I didn't ask her to! I didn't want her to! But that's what she said, she lied so he would let me go!"

"Then it's your fault."

"No! It's your fault, you left us when we needed you!"

A bitterly cold wind blew, causing both men to shiver. Linus looked south, having come to some realization. "What are we doing? He knows where we are. He'll tell the Ministry at once. We've got to get out of here. Now."

"And follow…"

"No, not follow. Not yet." Linus looked around, frowning. "We can't be seen in Hogsmeade… can't go back… Come on." Linus grabbed Mark's arm and together they marched back into Hollywyck, and towards the fireplace.

Mark fell out of the green flames and hit his cheek against the bare wood floor in front of Hector's fireplace.

"You okay?" A hand was held out before him; he clasped it – Linus' hand, firm and sure, but his arm shuddered as he helped Mark to his feet. They looked around.

"Is he home?" Mark asked. "Should be," Linus answered. "Hector?" He called.

Mark looked around. The apartment was small and cramped, even with its meager furniture. On the wall there were two pictures: a charcoal sketch of a family (a woman with dark hair, a boy and girl on either side) and an animated photograph of a blond man who looked a lot like Hector. The man in the photo frequently turned to regard the family next to him with pride and affection.

A tussle of footsteps: Hector ran into the sitting room, wand out. "Who –" he stopped and stared. "You again?"

"Emergency, Hector," Linus said. "Calliope's been kidnapped. Right now, I need your help."

"What – what're you going to do?"

"We're going to rescue her!" Mark said, impatient.

Linus gave a long-suffering sigh. "There's no 'we.'"

Mark looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"You're not coming."

_It was evening, in one of the nicest rooms of the Three Broomsticks, February 10__th__, 1972. The lamps gave soft yellow and pink lights to the scene. A merry little banquet was commencing. Philomel Ollivander and her new baby sat at the head of the table, with Benedicte on her right hand side. The entire Ollivander family was there: Servaas sat next to his brother, Andries, who sat beside his wife, Calliope Ollivander née Crouch. Young Linus, next to his father, sat next to an even younger Tess, beside her mother. Barty Crouch, too, was there, sitting awkwardly next to Professor McGonagall, who was chaperoning the Hogwarts students, but taking a glass of sherry in Philomel's honor._

_Philomel tapped her glass for silence. She could not stand up easily, but every head in the room turned to her. "We come here," she said, "not only to celebrate and present our newest daughter, but to name her godmother." With great formality, she turned to her other daughter. "Benedicte Clemence Ollivander, do you accept the responsibility of being godmother to your sister?"_

_Benedicte, with matched reverence, stood up and bowed to her mother, assenting softly. Philomel reached into the bassinet beside her and lifted up the baby, swamped in white eyelet. She held her out to Benedicte, who took the infant in her arms and said, "Calliope Blithe Ollivander, I will be your godmother."_

_The grandmother gasped a little and her eyes lit up: she did not know that she was to have a namesake._

"_I gladly take this privilege out of love, out of duty, and out of gratitude," Benny glanced at her mother, "for the safe delivery of you both." She looked down at little Calliope again. The baby's blue eyes were open and she bat her hand against Benedicte's dress. "For as long as I live," Benedicte said evenly, "I promise I'll protect you and be there for you. No matter what." _

_As the assembled party clapped for them, and Hector Gibbs (Tess' father) raised a toast. Benedicte rubbed her thumb on little Calliope's forehead, and then kissed the dark head._

_

* * *

_

Although I realize it's a bit late, I'm adding a pronunciation guide for character names, at least the ones that are probably tougher.

Calliope: ca-LIE-oh-pee

Tisiphone: ti-SI-pho-nee

Servaas: SER-vas

Printzen: It would come off sounding like Princeton, but with the 'z' and 't' sounds merged.

Benedicte: be-ne-DEECT

Any other names you're curious about? Let me know.

Lastly, a delayed thank you to **Notmyrealname. **Your review was so kind and gratifying, it seriously made my week. Thank you! And if you think it needs more reviews, well, I agree – recommend it to people, is my suggestion. And don't be afraid to comment on the latest chapter, either. :)

Thank you all for reading! Honestly, next week I probably will not be updating (Paris, here I come) - but stay tuned for the week after THAT, when plots shall be foiled, secrets revealed, and tangled webs woven in the exciting conclusion of... _The Ollivander Children!_


	18. Splendide Mendax

Splendide Mendax

or, The Foolish and the Weak

Brief A/N: The song at the end of this chapter is from 'The Wexford Lullaby,' a beautiful traditional song to which I am rather addicted. More notes at the end of this chapter.

* * *

"What do you mean..." Mark carefully, carefully, kept his voice under control, "I'm not coming?"

"First, we explain the situation to Hector, okay?"

"No, first _you_ explain what you just said."

"Oh boy," Hector muttered, stepping back.

"Well, excuse me, I took it as a given. Thought you'd want to stay away from all that. I assumed you'd hold the fort, realize that you can't _do_ anything to help us."

"Can't do anything?"

"Look, since the beginning it was your blundering curiosity and happy-go-lucky idiocy that landed you in trouble, with some wizard hauling you out of it."

Mark spoke slowly, his voice heated. "How _dare_ you? I know how important this is! Do you mean the Leaky Cauldron? 'Cause I think I learned something from that –"

"That still doesn't matter. I firmly believe that this mission has a greater chance of success without you and your _complete_ inability to help."

"Inability to – who do you think I am?"

"You're a Muggle, and more than that, you're a _coward_." Linus was sharp, harsh. "What did you do when Hollywyck was under attack, when Calliope was facing T.R. all by herself? You ran away."

"I was hiding – she told me to hide –"

"And stood by, doing nothing, while she wasted time and energy in rescuing you. What did you do when the Dementors came? You panicked and ran, you were sick, you nearly went into hysterics. Your actions make you a liability rather than an asset – you're worthless as a fighter, and this is too important, far too important, for you to screw up." He paused to take a breath.

"Linus –" Hector said, appalled.

"You arrogant –" Mark began.

"Nothing personal, but we can't afford to take you. You are still under my custody from the Wizengamot. If you run away, I'm still responsible for your protection. No." He shook his head. "No. Calliope, if I may be frank, is more important to me than you. You're not coming." Linus turned to Hector, as if Mark wasn't there. "Now, what happened is –" He began walking to the dining room, Hector followed mutely. "Do you remember a sister of mine named Benedicte?"

"Yes, why?" Hector turned back to glance at Mark, who was staring after them with a wide-eyed expression – angry and bewildered.

Hector started to say, "I'm sorry, if you need anything—" but Mark held up a hand. "No, go on. Hear what happened."

Linus, seemingly unmoved, sat at the dining room table and reviewed the previous days' events in brief: the meeting with Calliope at Hollywyck, the revelation of the gap in memory, his voyage to Hogwarts to find out more, Scurry's visit to him and the ensuing attack and kidnap.

It was a long story.

When Linus concluded, he leaned back, clearly exhausted, and Hector took his chance. "Listen, Linus, do you think you were a little harsh on Mr. Printzen?"

Linus shifted in his seat. "Maybe a little. Look, I'm tired, I didn't want to argue. I had to lay it down for him. And you aren't going to change my mind."

"A Dementor attack, you say?"

"Yes."

"And he panicked? Linus, everyone panics when they meet their first Dementor, and he didn't even know what it _was_."

"That still doesn't –"

"Thank you, Hector." Hector spun around in his chair. Mark was standing in the doorway behind him. His fringe was damp; he looked like he'd just washed his face. There was a glint in his hazel eyes. He sat opposite Hector, on Linus' other side, unsmiling. "Could I say a few words?"

"Sure, of course!" Hector said at once. Linus didn't seem to have the energy to glower. The dark circles under his eyes were very clear.

"So. I'm a coward. I'd load you down. You are responsible for me. If that's really what you think, you have every reason to dismiss me. If that's _still_ what you think after I've had my say, then, I'll accept it – if Hector agrees – and stay here. If you agree it's best. It's true, I have – behaved in a cowardly manner, but now, we could have time to prepare. You're an Obliviator, and this guy we're facing, _he's_ some kind of Obliviator. If you tell Hector and me what to expect, we're less likely to go into a panic and instead fight through it. Also, I've met this man. Hector hasn't. And what if, while you're gone, some law enforcement, maybe tipped off by the bad guy, calls on the house? What if I'm found here, alone? You'd be responsible – though I don't hold you – well… listen. Look at me when I'm talking to you – _look at me_."

Linus looked at him.

Mark's voice was low, hoarse. Linus had never seen him like this. "You're absolutely right, this is too important to run away from. But I won't, I promise, because I – I –" he faltered and took a deep breath, his face coloring: " I love Calliope."

He fixed Linus' gaze. "I love her. Wholeheartedly."

"That's ridiculous," Linus snapped. "You barely know her."

Mark's hands balled into fists. "Even if that _is_ true, it doesn't change the fact that I will never – ever – turn my back on her, not when she's in danger."

"In danger? In danger? She's only in captivity because you got caught and she offered herself as a hostage in your place! You put her in danger just by _knowing_ her, let alone by being in love with her!" He stood up.

"Linus, please calm down," Hector urged, but now Mark was replying with equal fervor –

"You _cannot_ leave me behind, you _cannot_."

"That's quite within my power. I'll be busy enough with having to protect her. And I already said, you would be a dead weight."

"Not if it's her! I'll do everything I can. If I abandon the woman I love, then I don't deserve protection, and I hereby release you from any custody or responsibility towards me."

"Jesus Christ, Printzen, you think that'll be enough?"

"What more do you want?"

"Do you really value Calliope's safety?"

"Before God, yes!"

"Gentlemen! Please!" Hector tried to force his way between them. It didn't work.

"Then give me your word," Linus said, "that when we rescue her, you will not entangle yourself with her any more than you already have. As a criminal, as a Muggle, you can only do her harm."

"You don't know that!" Mark interrupted angrily.

"I know more than you do!"

"Why don't we work on rescuing her first, and _then_ talk about romance?"

"That sounds like a great –" Linus paused. "What were we arguing about again?"

Hector glanced uncertainly from Linus to Mark, who irritably ran a hand through his hair. "About whether or not I am coming with you."

"Yes. Yes. That. You're…"

"I'm in love with Calliope, and I'll do whatever I can to save her… including obeying you."

Linus looked at Mark. Their eyes – gray and hazel – locked. At last, Linus said, "All right. I can work with that."

On Sow-Whet street, an owl alighted at a certain house, which was empty for the time being. The letter was addressed from Linus Ollivander to Dora Tonks. The owl then waited on the rooftop, on the lookout for any tasty furry critters.

A couple of hours later, Dora returned home. She frowned as she spotted the owl on the roof. Once inside, she found the letter and tore it open.

As she read, her face turned incredulous, then horrified, then very, very angry. Then, with unnecessary force, she stuffed the paper back into her pocket, growling "Linus you _idiot_," and ran out the door, to Hogwarts, sending her Patronus out ahead of her.

"His house will likely have anti-Apparation wards, but Scurry might be able to take us there. But she can only Apparate one person at a time, so the first should probably be me. Then Hector, and Mark last of all."

In the hallway, Linus was wearing a his Stone Cloak, while Mark stood in his own Muggle clothes, looking out the narrow hall window, with a brown cloak carelessly thrown over his shoulder. Hector was pulling on a black cloak with some trepidation.

"By the way –" Mark turned away from the window, "and sorry if this is a bad time, but is there any spell for instant killing that I should be aware of?"

Linus and Hector exchanged glances.

"There's three curses that you should be aware of," Linus began.

"_Three_ death curses?"

"No – just one," Hector supplied, "The _Avada Kedavra_, and one spell for perfect bodily control –"

"Imperius, where your will is subject to the caster's, and Cruciatus, the spell of torture. It can't be thrown off."

"Oh, but death can be?"

"No. Imperius can be thrown off, if you know you're affected and resist hard enough. Together, they're the Unforgivable Curses."

"Well," Mark looked discomfited, "glad to know…" he turned back to the window.

"I have Calliope's linden wand," Hector showed it to Linus, "so that when we find her she can defend herself. I'm ready to go."

"Good." Linus nodded. "Mark, are you ready?" Mark did not answer. Linus stepped closer. "Mark?"

"…God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty. And the things that are despised, and the things that are not…" Mark took a deep breath, his eyes closed, his breath fogging the window. "God has chosen them to confound the things that are." He opened his eyes and looked at Linus. "Yes. I'm ready."

"All right." Linus turned back to the center of the hallway. "Scurry?"

With a _crack_, Scurry was before them. "Yes, Master Linus," was all she said.

"Take me, and then Hector, then Mark, to the same place in quick succession." He told her the address of Turpin Rowle.

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. Here we go." Linus stepped forward and took Scurry's outstretched hand. With the _crack_, the two of the them vanished.

Light flickered back into their eyes, but it was the light of a streetlamp – they were standing outside of a house, on the pavement of an absolutely deserted street. Linus looked down at Scurry. "Good job. Well done. This is the place."

Warily, Scurry looked to the house before them, a tall brick house very like the ones next to it, with juniper trees growing thickly on either side. "We mistrust that place, Master Linus."

"Don't worry, just get Hector and Mark here straight away."

"Yes, sir." A _crack_, and Linus was alone on the street. He shivered, or felt like he would, and thought that Hector and Mark could not come soon enough.

'_So Mark's in love with Calliope_,' he thought to himself. '_Why didn't I see it before? __I wonder if Calliope realizes… now is not the time to think about these things,_' he reprimanded himself.

_Crack_. Hector appeared beside him. _Crack_. Scurry vanished. Hector gave a low whistle. "So this is the place, eh?"

"Yep." Linus began to tap his foot, trying to ignore the house behind him, and the cousin beside him. '_I specialize in the mind, not the heart. Never the heart. Okay. He has a right to feel the way he does – if it helps us to save her I'll never say another word against him – but __look at where just being friends with her has gotten us. If he went any further, he would be signing her death warrant. I am perfectly justified in what I have done. Besides, __she can't possibly reciprocate his… __affection__._'

'_I mean, she _can't _reciprocate__. He's a foolish, overdramatic American Muggle. __Being a Muggle shouldn't matter,_' he was quick to correct himself, '_It doesn't matter. But it does. It makes every difference in our world__…_'

_Crack_. Mark stood there, a bit bewildered, looking around immediately and taking in everything about the street, including the name.

"Anti-house-elf wards?" Hector asked, looking from Scurry to the house. "I never heard of such a thing!"

"That's because house-elves are the one thing you _don't_ ward against," Linus said grimly. "Scurry, you are dismissed."

She curtsied, looked anxiously at each man, and clasped her hands together (warding them from danger, Mark thought) before disappearing.

"Now, to get into that house." Linus stepped forward and held his wand out, like he was using it to scan for something. "There's spells on here that I don't recognize – but they were lifted recently. Someone entered and exited."

"The same person?" Mark asked.

"Don't know."

Hector ambled to the side of the road and picked up a pebble from a gravel driveway. "Old trick from childhood," he explained. "Toss a rock to test the wards." He stopped up towards the closed gate and gave the pebble an underhand toss. About a foot beyond the gate, the pebble changed direction – without changing momentum, the pebble was simply sent backwards, turned around. It fell at Hector's feet. "Huh," he said.

"Nothing worse than that?" Mark asked.

"Worse, you say – this isn't a spell I know how to break. Let's try the Finite Incantetum spell, Hector, you and me together."

"Okay." They stood shoulder to shoulder, wands raised. "_Finite Incantetum_!" they said together. The air before the house seemed to shimmer – Mark gasped – and then it fell into place again, just as nondescript as before.

"Damn!"

"Another try?"

They repeated the spell. Twice. Three times. Five.

"They say seven's the charm," Hector said, in all seriousness.

"What if we tried walking through – the three of us?" Mark suggested. "If we all walk in single file, how can it expel three of us in a straight line at once?"

Hector looked doubting, and Linus glanced at the pebble.

"We'll hold hands?" Mark offered.

It turned out the barrier _could_ expel three at once. Hector had hardly stepped into it when Linus was suddenly marching past his ear, then Mark, then Hector himself followed like a bizarre game of Crack the Whip.

After they regained their balance, Linus started going after the barrier with every counter to every ward that he could think of, and Hector followed his example. But nothing changed. They threw the pebble over several times, and each time its reaction was the same.

At a break in the action, Linus stared at the house while Hector leaned against a mailbox. "There's one light on," the Obliviator said. "_One_. Someone must be awake. Maybe the one in charge of the ward. Maybe – maybe a challenge is what he's looking for. A fight. A declaration of war."

"Seriously?" Mark asked. "A, 'Hello, my name is Linus Ollivander, you killed my father, prepare to die?'"

"I know, it's the kind of dumb thing _you'd_ come up with…"

Mark flinched, but just glared at Linus' back. "Oh, don't worry. You're sleep-deprived."

"But we can't do _that_. We'll alert the whole neighborhood!" Hector said.

"What else _can_ we do?"

"Is there maybe a back door?"

"Right, a back door that he forgot to protect. "

A sharp gust of wind blew autumn down the street. It carried the sound of a church bell ringing – one, two, three, eleven times it chimed. Hector straightened up. "What do you think –"

"We're out of time," Linus sighed heavily, leaning on the neighbor's stone fence.

"The clock is upbraiding all of us with the waste of time," Mark answered, "but we can't give up. You know the most of this guy. Think. What stratagems does he employ? Passwords, maybe? Like swordfish? What's his favorite football team?"

"Quidditch," Hector corrected.

"All I know about him," Linus said, "Is his work, and how devoted he is to…" He stopped. He stared at the house. He walked up to the gate. He clasped his Stone Cloak at his throat. He laid his wand hand over his heart and stretched his left hand towards the gate. He said solemnly, "_Splendide mendax."_

The air in front of the house shimmered slightly. Mark couldn't feel the dissipation of magic, but he saw the relief on Hector's face as he said "Oh, that's great. That's the motto of the Obliviators, isn't it?"

Linus nodded. Mark looked from one to the other as they gathered in front of the gate. "What does it mean?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to know.

As Linus opened the gate he said shortly, "'Nobly untruthful.' Come on, let's go, and remember our plan."

They entered the yard at last in single file. A few complicated Unlocking Charms yielded the door to them. Linus and Hector lit their wands at once in the dark hallway.

"Hector, Mark and I will take the upstairs. You investigate these rooms, and then look in the cellar. If we find anything, _Expecto Patronum_." All this in a whisper.

Hector only nodded in reply, his face white.

"And Mark," Linus added, "don't touch anything."

The men moved slowly down the hallway. Linus' wandlight was reflected in a mirror at the end of it. Mark kept his hands clenched into fists at his side – and glanced at the mirror. He stopped, mesmerized. His own face became clouded, and beside it other images became clear…

"That's…" he murmured, starting to walk towards it.

Linus glanced at the mirror, then reached out and slapped Mark on the shoulder. "Don't look at it, probably a trap." He looked further down the hall. Seeing nothing worth exploring, he made for the stairwell. He glanced back at Mark and gestured as if to say, "Well, come on!"

But Mark saw, behind Linus, a symbol in gold light up on the wall. Mark had seen that sigil once before – right before his arrest.

"What is it?" Linus asked, seeing Mark's face.

Before Mark could say, everything went wrong.

First an orange light like a firework went off in every doorway. Mark staggered against the doorframe, gripping his forehead and babbling loose Shakespeare. Linus fell backwards down the stair, knocking his head against the wall and falling unconscious. Hector reeled away from the cellar stairs and lost his balance.

He was trying to stand up when a red bolt of light punctuated the darkness, and Hector and Mark both fell, unconscious, to the floor.

In less than five minutes, the gold sigils on the wall faded as Magical Law Enforcement officials forced their way through the door, and found three intruders, including two wanted criminals, Confounded and Stunned, on the floor of Turpin Rowle's flat.

_It was October 30__th__, 1976 – the last night before Benedicte Ollivander vanished. _

_The lamps were lit against the autumn chill outside. Benedicte finished reading aloud 'The Star's Goodnight,' and looked down at her charge. To her happy surprise, Calliope had fallen asleep on her lap. "Aw, the little dear," she whispered. Then, a moment later, she tried to pick up the two-year-old 'dear' and groaned. "You're getting so big!_

"_I'll put the not-so-Shrimp to bed, Mum," she said to Philomel, who was looking through a cookbook with Linus to find a good cake for the birthday party tomorrow. _

"_All right." Philomel looked up, smiling at her daughters. "Have you and your friends settled your plans for tomorrow?"_

"_Yep – we're all going to meet in Edinburgh tomorrow to shop. They insisted on Edinburgh." Benny grinned conspiratorially at her mother. "I wonder why."_

_Without another word, she carefully balanced the toddler between her shoulder and hip and took her to her bedroom. Gilt stars spun on the wallpaper as they entered. _

"_And down to bed you go," said Benny, as she very gently, very quietly, set down her little sister. As she drew the blanket over Calliope, the baby shifted and kicked. "Shh, shh, you'll see me tomorrow, don't you worry." Stroking the black hair, she sang,_

"_The moon must sleep beyond the tree _

"_So weep sweet maid of Galilee _

"_The sun must rise before the cross _

"_To dry your tears and share your loss._

"_The darkest hour of the starless night_

"_Must bow to the power of the Eastern light,_

"_That heals the earth, and makes us whole,_

"_Heart of my heart, soul of my soul_."

_She kissed her fingers, and touched the baby's forehead with a caress. Then she extinguished the lamp, and left her sister to her dreaming. Benedicte had to get ready for tomorrow. _

The End of _The Ollivander Children_

Stay tuned for: _The Ollivanders At War_

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Author's Note: ... first of all, everyone, I'm sorry.

Blame the movies and _their_ cliffhanger.

If I had published this a year ago, before I started working with a beta-reader, you would be reading my rough draft, and at this point we would be on our way to wrapping up all the plotlines in a slick fashion that would take up about five more chapters and a tidy epilogue, and a few days in-story time, and we would all be happy.

But it would not be right.

As I worked through the rough draft with my beta reader, I found myself making drastic improvements, mostly by remembering the characters I had created in the first place, and removing blocks such as bad communication, unnecessary side trips, and the Idiot Ball. But when it came to this point, this kidnapping, I realized it could be way better. That my villain could be _smarter_. I frequently say, the villain makes the story. And what was the point of setting up Turpentine as a savvy politician, enterprising scientist, canny Death Eater - a schmott guy, in other words - only to have him fall for a high-school blunder of flubbing up a schedule?

You, my readers, deserve better. My characters deserve better.

And that's when _The Ollivanders At War_ came into existence. It's still a work-in-progress, which is why I am... *deep breath* not publishing it for a while. But it _will_ be published, and right here on . That's a promise.

Look at it this way: it's not the Three Year Summer. And if you don't remember the Three Year Summer, then you weren't there.

I am aiming for the first chapter of _Ollivanders at War_ to be published March 26, 2011, Saturday. If this should change, I will definitely update; look for the news on my profile.

I ask, please, for your understanding and continued support, because believe me, your Story Alerts, and reviews, and Favorites, mean _so much_ to me. I can't even tell you. So, in short, stay tuned. Please don't forget this story. Recommend it to others. Review, please, tell me what you think of this chapter! Check back in on March 26th, and I'll provide _The Ollivanders At War_ then, or give the reason why.

March 26, 2011.

That's a promise.

See you later...


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